


Symphony No. 4 in F Minor

by Zymm



Series: Symphony No. 4 in F Minor [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, But I have no self control, Classical Music, F/M, Symphony - Freeform, Toxic Relationships, Was a one-shot, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-15 20:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zymm/pseuds/Zymm
Summary: Feyre Archeron is one of the youngest principal chairs the fiery, cut-throat New York Symphony has ever seen. As she’s thrust into the toxic world of high-profile, professional symphonies, she struggles to find who she can trust and hold onto before she’s yet another casualty of the game.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another one-shot, this time over two chapters (maaaaybe three) because I can’t seem to cut down on anything. I just love the characters, and writing them.  
> The title is random, but it’s in reference to Tchiakovsky’s Symphony No. 4, particularly the fourth movement. It’s happy and victorious, but slips into dark, sad tones throughout. It also has amazing flute solos, as Feyre is a flautist, and an oboe/bassoon duet near the beginning, which includes two main characters in here.  
> I also used the New York Symphony as the symphony here because it doesn’t exist anymore- it merged with the NY Philharmonic years ago, so I’m not badmouthing an real orchestra.  
> And apologies about the fact that there should be more brass- the woodwind quintet offerred a larger story potential. But Cassian is a good compromise :)  
> Music list at the bottom!

His hand went up lightly, a delicate motion, as if afraid to break the surface of the silence; the entire orchestra breathed in quietly, a shuddering beast of many players. His hand shook slightly as he lowered it to gently lay out the first beat- not out of fear, but rather intense, unwavering concentration.

I was too preoccupied with the opening flute duet, waves upon waves of arpeggios, to really let myself focus on him. He was gorgeous, and I couldn’t help looking at him a second time, even though I could clearly see, feel the beats.

His brows were low and furrowed, his mouth open slightly, he closed his eyes as he gestured to the violin section, cueing in a soloist. 

“No, no.” He stopped, his eyes still closed tightly. For a second, I was terrified. Ianth,  the second flute, and I had played the duet well enough, so surely it wasn’t us-

“Damnit, Tamlin, you  _ must  _ put some emotion into that solo.” Rhysand said, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice. He raked a hand over his face, and the concertmaster looked simply disgusted at his maestro.

“It’s a-” Tamlin began, shifting his bow around in his lap, but Rhysand stopped him, slamming a hand down on his score. I already knew Tam would be complaining about it again tonight, a bottle of mystery substance in his hand.

“I know it’s a trill, but it doesn’t mean it’s not still music.” Rhysand all but snarled. 

I felt bad for Tam, I really did. He was an incredible player, sweet, and handsome to boot, and I was lucky to have him. But, I was relieved the attention wasn’t on Ianthe and I- that flute duet was fucking hard to blend, and it had-

“Feyre, beautiful job on the flute duet.” Rhysand said calmly, giving me that look across the whole orchestra, his violet eyes amused. 

Beside me, Ianthe was seething. The girl loved attention, especially from a gorgeous man, and the fact that she was left out was hilarious to me.

“But it could come out more on the second part, Ianthe- the flute part is like the fabric of a dream there, see?” Rhysand offered, moving his hands about as he talked. “Simply gorgeous.”

She nodded, her teeth gritted. I smiled, staring into my part, trying to look as if I wasn’t interested. I looked up, after scratching a few words of instruction into my part, to find Rhysand staring at me. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought he had a small, barely-there grin on his face.

He simply lifted his hands, his eyebrows up and expectant.

“Again.” He said.

 

\----------------

 

Lucien found me afterwards, as I polished my flute.

“So, first rehearsal.” He said, wiggling his eyebrows; his red, red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, accenting his sharp, fox-like features. The sly grin on his face only helped. 

“It’s done with, I can say that much.” I muttered, shaking my head. 

“Hey, it was a pretty good rehearsal for us. Rhysand was generous today.” 

“ _ That’s  _ him being happy?” I asked, a little louder than expected; a horn player shot me a look. Lucien only chuckled, taking apart his clarinet with careful fingers.

“Oh, Feyre. That’s the nicest he’s been this whole season.” He answered. 

I couldn’t believe it- I’d heard all the rumors about the New York Symphony, long before I ever auditioned, back into my undergraduate degree. I’d heard the nasty temper of its maestro, of the catty orchestra hellbent on betraying one another for a higher chair, a flashier solo. But it hadn’t prepared me for my first rehearsal.

I’d lost count of how many times Rhysand had stopped and started the orchestra, a new insult on his tongue at every turn. Luckily, I’d been spared today. 

“I’m not going to survive.” I told him, and he must’ve seen the horror on my features- he laughed again.

“Well, we did start with  _ Daphnis et Chloe _ , so I suppose he could’ve been a tiny bit justified today.” Lucien admitted, shrugging a bit. “It’s a difficult work to put together, especially when-”

“When the maestro has unrealistic ideas.” I finished for him. “ ‘like a dream’. Please. It’s an a ballet, not some weird psychedelic wet dream.”

Lucien sputtered out a laugh. “That’s definitely the first time I’ve heard that description. But, accurate nonetheless.”

He locked up his case, looking expectantly at me. I finished as fast as I could, rolling my eyes- he was always impatient, always in motion. Clarinet suited him.

“Now for the real fun part.” He grumbled. 

“It can’t be worse than that hostile rehearsal.” I reminded him, even if his response worried me- his brows were low over his eyes, his lips in a thin, straight line.

“Oh, you don’t know them that well.” He shot back, nudging my shoulder as we walked.

“Neither do you, Luce. It’s your first time in quintet, too.” 

“I’m surprised Tam let you come.” Lucien said, catching me off guard; he was watching me, and must’ve seen the flash of fear in my eyes. “Yeah, he told me that you both fought about it.”

“And?” I asked, slowing my pace a bit. Lucien shook his head, not making eye contact with me.

“It’s your life, Feyre, and it’s unfair of him to ask that of you- but I understand. The quintet has always…..”

“What?” I demanded, wanting to know more. They didn’t seem  _ that  _ bad, even if I hadn’t officially met them. Tam was just being protective, as always. Maybe a bit too much this time.

He grumbled back a response that I didn’t quite catch. I shrugged it off. I’d always been a fan of the smaller, chamber ensembles- I couldn’t help it. I was a flautist, and I enjoyed being the only flautist in the room. I think it just came with the title. 

It wasn’t my fault that Tam had some sort of conflict with the members of the quintet. And Rhysand, of course. I wasn’t sure where the connection was.

Lucien had been a part of the New York Symphony for half a season, filling in when the principal clarinet had mysteriously gotten sick and had the withdrawal. It was so sudden that Lucien had filled me in on some  _ ideas  _ about her sickness; honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the clarinet section. Like the rest of the orchestra, they were out for blood.

But, the second clarinet hadn’t won the audition. Lucien had, coming out of nowhere to claim the title. I remembered his frenzied calls, telling me he’d  _ actually won the fucking thing, lord knows how,  _ remembered being so proud of him.

And then when my turn came around to audition, he’d forced it down my throat. In hindsight, I appreciated how much he believed in me, even when I didn’t. 

Even Tam had shook his head at me, practicing from dawn to dusk in our small studio, preparing for that audition. 

“It’s a tough audition, and you don’t have a doctorate yet, love.” Tamlin had said, softly. The words still slapped me across the face, and he must’ve seen it. His face softened, trying to lessen the blow he’d already dealt. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

But I’d gotten it, by some miracle. Tamlin didn’t bother hiding his surprise, and he made it  _ very  _ clear that it was a random chance. 

But that’s just how Tam was- he was always so intense, so brutal, and his career was no different. It caused rifts in our personal relationship, but it was for the best. It pushed me.

Lucien, the perfect, kindest friend I’d ever had, had only shook his head and laughed, a wide grin on his golden features. “I told you so, you dork.”

And with the start of the next season, the woodwind quintet began again, too. They’d stopped suddenly after the principal  clarinet became sick last season, cancelling all other performances. I’d listened to them a few times, heard just how scary good they were. They couldn’t just usher in a new player mid-season.

And so now they’d begin again, with Lucien and I in the new place.

Without Tamlin knowing, as well. 

I pushed down my guilt, instead trying to hold my chin up high. I  _ belonged  _ here, dammit.

“Lord help us.” He muttered to me, making an overdramatic motion of a cross across his chest as he entered the smaller rehearsal hall.

 

\--------------

 

“I’m Morrigan.” The oboist said as soon as I sat my flute down, grinning from ear to ear as she held out a perky hand. 

She was drop dead gorgeous, I noted, just like the rest of the New York Symphony.

“Is it a damn requirement to be young and beautiful?” I’d asked Lucien once, shaking my head in disgust. 

“Well, the auditions aren’t blind, if that’s what you’re asking.” Lucien explained simply. “And appearances mean a lot, Feyre.”

And Morrigan was no exception- she was all golden, long hair, with dark eyes and ruby lips. Even her clothes were beautiful- a simple, yet sophisticated dress that hung off her generous curves. I wanted to dislike her, but she seemed so genuine that I couldn’t.

I shook her hand. “I’m Feyre Archeron.”

“Oh, I know!” She said, grinning wildly. “Rhysand told us all about you. We just couldn’t wait to meet you. The last flute was a real bitch-”

“Let’s save the catfights for later, Mor.” A deep voice said, all rough and teasing. 

The french horn player was putting together his instrument, screwing the bell onto the body quite roughly. Dear lord, he’d probably break it, with as much pressure he was applying. Mor saw my expression, and laughed, a pretty, tinkling sound. 

“Cassian’s just a brute.” She explained, much to the disdain of the horn player, who scoffed loudly. He was, of course, another perfect narrative of the New York Symphony, but seemed different. He- Cassian, I reminded myself- was giant, broad shoulders and muscles at every turn. His shoulder-length, inky hair was pulled into a bun behind his head, a few tendrils snaking out to decorate his chiseled features.

In short, he looked like he’d be more suited as some sort of professional football player, rather than a classical musician. Or a male model. He’d probably be good at that too.

And in the v-neck, grey shirt he wore, I could see the beginning of a dark, swirling tattoo on his chest. 

“Hey, eyes up here, doll.” Cassian said, pointing two fingers towards his eyes, a smirk on his face. 

“I’ve just never seen a classical musician with tattoos,” I said, laughing a little at the absurdity of it all. I’d been so used to playing with dinosaurs.

“Well, Cassian doesn’t really fit the mold. Any mold, really.” Mor said, a playful sneer on her face. 

“You mean by not being eighty years old?” Cassian answered. “I consider myself rather blessed.”

“I didn’t know they were calling stupidity a gift nowadays.” Another voice said, mild and soft compared to Cassian’s brash, rough voice. Mor cackled, tucking her feet underneath her chair to contain herself.

The bassoon player was almost like a leaner, more refined version of Cassian; they were strikingly similar, except that he had shorter black hair, and grey eyes to Cassian’s amber. His face was sharper, his expression intense. He was beautiful to Cassian’s handsome.

“This is Azriel. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s always brilliant.” Mor explained, gesturing to the bassoonist as he put together a stunning, wooden bassoon, chattering with Cassian quietly.

Lucien entered the room then, coming back from refilling his water bottle; as soon as he had entered the room earlier, he’d sat down his case and then scattered, leaving me with the strangers. I’d get the traitor back later.

“This is Lucien.” I said awkwardly, as if he hadn’t filled in for half the season last year. But that was in the full symphony, not in the quintet.

“We’ve met a few times.” Mor said quietly, the playful voice gone and replaced with something somber, hollow. Lucien pretended not to hear either of us.

I busied myself with warming-up, even though we’d just came from a full rehearsal. It was a new space, a bit colder than the last, and I already dreaded tuning. 

We were all seated in our respective chairs, Lucien directly across from me, Morrigan to my left, Azriel to Lucien’s left, and then Cassian facing inward, in between Morrigan and Azriel. 

Which was why I was so surprised when the door to the recital hall opened again, someone else deciding to join.

“Ah, how I’ve missed my little family.” 

I’d recognize the sarcastic, biting voice anywhere. 

“But I saw you this morning, asshole. That was more than enough for me.” Cassian responded, that stupid, sly grin on his face. Mor shook her head beside me, a grin on her face, and I swore even Azriel perked up. 

But I was still, my heart stopping. Cassian was about to lose his job, talking back to the maestro like that. Even if he was an asshole.

To my complete surprise, Rhysand laughed, a sound I’d never heard him make before. It was velvety, smooth. 

“If only you could play as good as you talk shit, Cassian.” Rhysand said smoothly, and Cassian roared with laughter at that. Lucien and I made eye contact across our stands, our bewildered faces mirroring one another.

“Hello, Feyre. I’m pleased you decided to join.” Rhysand told me as he made his way up the stairs, up to the stage. The way he looked at me, so intimately, made me feel as if I wasn’t wearing clothes, wasn’t sharing the stage with four other musicians. I looked away.

I wondered if Tamlin had told him not to let me join. The thought made my blood boil.

“I have the music for this season, and you’re going to enjoy it.” Rhysand said as he began to pass out the leather folders. He handed me mine, a small smile twisting his features.

“A sextet?” Cassian said incredulously, already thumbing through the music. “You haven’t played with us in years, Rhys.”

Now that was interesting- I’ll admit, I didn’t even know Rhysand played an instrument. It shouldn’t be a surprise, as most (but not all) conductors tended to play  _ something.  _ But I couldn’t picture him with anything other than an intense glare and a baton.

“I thought it may be time for something different.” Rhysand offered, picking an imaginary piece off lint off his his dark, fitted jacket. 

I noticed the piano in the corner of the stage, for the first time.  _ O _ h. That made sense, even though I couldn’t quite picture Rhysand as a pianist.

“We’ll start with that, then.” He announced, scowling at the state of the piano, off into the corner. “I suppose I’ll get the piano out, since you five decided not to include me.”

“Sorry, we didn’t know we’d have to accommodate for you and your giant head.” Cassian shot back, rolling his eyes.

I was too busy looking at the music- Poulenc’s Sextet, Ligeti’s Bagatelles, Farkas’ Lavottania- and that was just the beginning. It was hard music to play, and even harder to blend with. Especially with two out of the quintet- sorry,  _ sextet _ \- being strangers. 

“Oh, don’t look so scared.” Mor said quietly to me, a little grin lifting the corners of her red lips playfully. “We’re not  _ that  _ bad.”

“I’m more worried for my sake.” I grumbled half-heartedly.

“Have a little faith in yourself.” She offered.

“Let’s get started.” Rhysand announced, placing himself on the piano bench gracefully, and it all clicked into place. I could see it now- him hunched over the piano, brooding over it, his long, thin fingers slipping over one another. 

Mor interrupted his progress by simply playing a long, sustained A, glancing over the quintet expectantly. We all caught on quickly, and Rhysand sighed dramatically.

“My god, you bunch haven’t even tuned yet? We’ll be lucky to get out by sunset.”

  
  


\-----------------

  
  


I got home that night with a bag of takeout- Indian, Tamlin’s favorite. I couldn’t handle the spice that well, and I didn’t particularly like it, but he’d had a hard day, and he wasn’t particularly good at compromising.

“Tam?” I asked to the dark apartment, setting the food onto the counter. I squinted against the darkness- where else would he be? He usually told me before he went out somewhere unexpectedly.

Our little apartment wasn’t that large, just a kitchen, open living room, and two bedrooms and a bath. We’d changed one room into a studio for practice, even though Tamlin liked to practice away from me nowadays. I practiced a little too loud, too dark for him to listen to constantly. I guess it made sense.

I peeked around the corner of the living room, out onto the balcony- and sure enough, Tamlin was leaning against the railing, staring off into the cityscape below. 

“Hey, honey.” I said gently, sliding open the door. He didn’t turn to look at me, instead taking a sip from his glass. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the muscles moving below, uneasy. Maybe I should’ve stayed at Lucien’s.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked gently, placing a hand on his arm. He didn’t look at me still, something tightening in his jaw, but he didn’t shake off my hand.

“Where were you this afternoon?” He asked, his voice strained. 

I didn’t let my face show my emotions, for once, but my heartbeat sped up. Someone must’ve told him about quintet.

“I had lessons to teach, at the college.” I lied, smoothly; I ignored the guilt that bubbled up inside of me. I did teach part-time at the nearby college, but today was my off day. I didn’t think he knew my schedule that well.

“All afternoon?” He asked again, and he turned this time, his navy eyes stern and cold. I couldn’t help stepping back once, defensively.

“Yes.” I insisted. “I had a few make-up lessons today, too. It took longer than normal.”

Tamlin didn’t respond, instead shaking his head, looking back over the skyline. Taking in my lie, weighing it.

“I don’t like Rhysand, or his quintet.” Tamlin said, a dark look crossing his features. 

“Why?” I asked, before I could hold myself back.

“Don’t you trust me?” He asked, and I could feel the anger coming from him, stopping me in my tracks. He never got angry at me, not like this. 

“Of course.” I said quickly.

“Then why isn’t my word enough?” Tamlin countered. “They’re terrible people, his whole lot. They’ll do nothing but ruin you, if they had the chance.”

“They seem nice to me.” I said, shrugging my shoulders. He looked quickly at me, and I continued my previous lie. “They introduced themselves after rehearsal.”

He didn’t nod, just looked away, that same twitch in his jaw.

I sighed. “Can we not fight tonight, please? I brought home your favorite.”

Tam paused, weighing the options. He nodded, reaching an arm around my shoulders. He pulled me in, pressing a kiss to my hair, and I tried to ignore his earlier words. He was just scared for me, always looking out for me.

But even as we ate, chattering about our days, letting Tamlin complain to me. Even as we watched a movie, me curled into his side as he commented on the music, ever the critic. Even as we went to bed that night, after quietly making love, even after all of that- I still couldn’t get past his words, how they made me feel. I felt suffocated.

 

\-------------------------

 

Rehearsals passed by in a whirl that first month, a few smaller, intimate performances following them. It was nothing big- we hadn’t reached the main concert season, the one that brought the real crowds. It was more of a soft start, a transition.

I continued going to quintet, and I enjoyed the hell out of it. 

Mor was right- it was turning out beautifully, and even I couldn’t stop the giddy feeling as we all played, as we all  _ connected.  _ It’s cheesy, it’s cliched, but playing music in such an intimate, small number made us all feel alive, like we were one machine with multiple parts. 

I felt the smile threatening to break through when Lucien and I played a difficult duet within the piece, flute and clarinet singing together while the others played backup. I felt the warmth in my chest when Mor and I played slowly, lyrically together, flute and oboe blending into one, both of us leaning into one another. I felt the amusement when Cassian and Azriel gave us exasperated looks as they- horn and bassoon- were once again stuck on a boring bassline. 

I felt a lot, and it was nice. I hadn’t realized how little I had felt until suddenly I was surrounded by people other than just Lucien and Tamlin, and it was like a breath of fresh air. Like being underwater too long and coming up for giant gulps of air. 

Even Lucien was enjoying it, I thought- I’d seen him smile a few times when Cassian snapped back at Rhysand, or when Mor nailed another soaring oboe solo, or Azriel shaved away at a reed with a frown on his face. 

It was perfect.

We’d sometimes even stay a bit afterwards, all of us just talking, turning from musicians to humans in one another’s eyes. It was refreshing. 

And there was always Rhysand, always looking when I searched for him, always there to offer me encouragement and reinforcement. He’d became some odd sort of mentor to me- always there to investigate how I was adjusting. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it, didn’t love the attention. I knew I shouldn’t, knew it with the guilty tug I felt in my chest, but the pull to Rhysand was undeniable. And I wondered if he felt it too- the way he watched me when I played, when I warmed up, pretending to be investing solely in the music. But I was elsewhere, watching him, watching the emotions flicking across his face when he thought I wasn’t looking.

But we still hadn’t had our first performance, and I knew that Tamlin would be checking the posters when they went up, when the media began circulating the concert. He’d be checking all the musician names, making sure none of them were Feyre Archeron. 

I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, I decided, looking at Cassian and Rhysand, both arguing over the importance of a specific chord. This meant too much to me.

 

\-------------------

 

The first real concert came, and with it, the frustration and anxiety of the whole orchestra surged to life.

It was a difficult concert- a few classics, a Mozart symphony, things the people would enjoy. And, of course,  _ Daphnis et Chloe,  _ with the full choir backing us. It was a monster on its own, worthy of a whole concert itself; but Rhysand always pushed us to the brink. 

It was relieving, though. Instead of being pushed back, being given barely enough to keep me stagnant, I was instead being pushed forward, testing my own strengths and talents. It was exhausting, mentally and physically taxing, but I already felt better than when I’d started in the symphony, a little over a month ago.

Our concert was beautiful. Everything fell into place as it should, and I knew everyone on the stage felt it too, in the way we all moved together, moving as a unit. For all the shit in the orchestra, all of the anger and frustration and envy, we put it aside at the concert in favor of making something truly beautiful.

Walking off the stage later, after a length encore, I sidestepped lots of musicians talking to one another, chattering about the performance. I was looking forward to putting up my instrument and going back to the apartment for a long, steaming bath. Maybe I’d even grab a glass of wine with it, invite Tam in.

“What’re you doing after this, doll?” Cassian asked me, siding up to me in the darkness of the backstage area. He had that goofy grin on his face, his forehead gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. He must’ve gotten worked up on that stage. 

“I’m thinking a hot bath and a bottle of wine.” I said cheekily, grinning up at him. 

“Nope, that won’t work.” He said assertively. “You’re coming with us.”

“Oh, I-” I said, feeling the grin slip off of my face. In the dark, him trying to find a path for us to get back to the warm-up room, he must not have noticed.

“It’s your first concert. We’ve gotta go celebrate!” Cassian insisted. 

“Who’s all coming?” I asked, hesitantly. I already knew.

“Me, Mor, Azriel, unless he’s found another swooning goth girl to romance- yeah, he does that occasionally, it surprised all of us too- but, ah…” He trailed off, losing concentration after his own sidetrack. Or maybe he was just gauging my response, looking down at me. “And Rhysand, of course.”

All the people Tamlin didn’t want me around. 

But it would be so fun- to let myself loose for once, to be around people without Tamlin gripping my hand like a vise. To just be around friends, instead of just being an addition to Tamlin.

“Yes.” I breathed out, faster than I’d expected. Cassian blinked, as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

“Well, alrighty then- I’ll go find Mor and Az, but Rhys probably has to go play nice to all the symphony board members-”

“Can Lucien come?” I asked, interrupting his train of thought. Cassian shrugged.

“Sure, why not. He seems okay, once he gets the stick out of his ass.” 

I couldn’t help but laugh at that, a very unladylike chuckle that surprised Cassian. He grinned back wildly.

I agreed- Lucien was always so uptight, so serious. To be fair, I usually was, too, except around the quintet.

Lucien eyed me warily when I asked, that tight look coming back on his features. His hair was swept back into a low ponytail again, looking immaculate in his tuxedo, tailored perfectly to fit his tall, lean frame. He looked very serious, too much so.

“C’mon, Luce.” I begged before he could answer. “It would be fun and you know it. Just get out with the quintet members, have some drinks.”

“Does Tamlin know?” He asked, quietly, his amber eyes stern. I couldn’t help the distaste that showed on my face- why did it matter? For once, I wasn’t just something to hang off Tamlin’s arm, like a piece of jewelry. For once, people wanted to be around me, without Tamlin. I felt exhilarated, and it wasn’t just a post-performance high.

“He’d be pissed, Feyre.” Lucien said, shaking his head. 

“What don’t I get, Lucien?” I snapped. “What am I not understanding here? Neither of you will talk shit in front of me yet you’re so quick to tell me to avoid them. It’s pretty fucking-”

“Listen.” He said, quietly, sternly. I paused- for a moment, he reminded me of Tamlin, dark and demanding my full attention. “You need to stop whatever connection you feel for them. Not just for Tamlin’s sake, but for yours.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” I said proudly, pushing a finger into his chest. I had to crane my neck to look up at him this close, but Lucien didn’t seem mean anymore. He seemed sad.

“They’re terrible people, Feyre, and they’ll stab you in the back when you don’t expect it. Cassian, Azriel, Morrigan- they’re despicable. And Rhysand- the worst. And you’ve had to of seen how he looks at you. Tamlin sure has.” Lucien’s words ate at me, biting away any bit of self control I had left. 

I was my own person, and I’d do whatever I wanted. I didn’t need Tamlin there to babysit me, to grab at me and use me like a puppet whenever  _ he  _ thought was best. 

“I’m going. You can tell Tamlin, I don’t give a shit.” I said, mustering all of my bite, all of my distaste into my lie. I did care. I cared a lot.

And he was calling my bluff, I could see in the way he frowned, his eyes dark and brooding. 

“Be careful.” Lucien said quietly as I left, barely more than a whisper in the quiet hallway.

 

\-----------------

 

The bar was alive, packed to the brim with tons of happy, half-drunk people. 

I’d never been here, not on this side of the island. The more I thought about it, I hadn’t really been  _ anywhere  _ in New York, only going where Tamlin went. When I’d first moved here, a little under a year ago, I’d quickly latched onto my new apartment neighbor- Lucien. After he introduced me to Tamlin, it had clicked into place like a fairy tale. Alone in the new country, I held onto them both for life.

But now I was pressed tightly into Azriel’s side, trying to ignore the fact that my chest was shoved into his side. Squeezing past people had proven to be more of a sport.

“You still there, Fey?” Morrigan said, a few steps ahead of us. She tossed her head over her shoulder, golden curls flying out behind her. I couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, even if I was being forced to get cozy with the quietest member of the quintet.

“Sorry.” Azriel said shortly when he pressed too far into me, pushing me back a step.

“You’re good, just clumsy.” I responded. He lightened up a bit- I could see from the way he eyed the crowd that he hated being surrounded by so many people. I squeezed his elbow, a little bit of encouragement. I could see his lips turn up into a small smile as he faced forward, following Mor and Cassian to the back of the bar.

“Thank God.” Cassian breathed as we snagged a round booth, running a hand dramatically through his long hair, now untamed and loose.

“It’s normally not this busy.” Mor commented, running a finger down the wooden table in between us. 

“It’s a Saturday.” Azriel offered, letting me slip into the booth before him. I slid around to Mor, grateful for the female presence.

I couldn’t remember the last girl friend I’d had- I’d latched onto Lucien and Tamlin so quickly that I hadn’t really had time. They didn’t keep many girls around, even if Lucien occasionally brought one home for a night. 

There was Ianthe, the second flute, who Tamlin occasionally spoke of, as if they were once connected. I never bothered to open that door, though, because I was positive I wouldn’t like to know. 

Cassian had already sulked off towards the bar, pushing a few people out the way as he went; they didn’t dare cross him, even if he was still in his concert black tuxedo. Cassian didn’t look like someone you’d want to cross, ever.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, Feyre.” Mor told me, swirling a piece of gold hair around her finger. Azriel watched her movements, tracing her finger with his gaze. “So I just told him rum and coke. Can’t go wrong with that.”

I nodded, even if I’d never tried the concoction before. I didn’t drink much, and had only drank once before I moved in with Tamlin, when I was still living in London. It was just a lot of beers and a lot of mistakes with a guy named Isaac.

And once Tamlin came, it was always wine. Always wine, because that was fancy and sophisticated and what Tamlin aspired to be.

“Why are there so many damned people in this bar.” Rhysand demanded, appearing in front of our table, coming suddenly out of the dim lighting in the cramped bar.

Mor shot him a sassy remark, one he rolled his eyes at, but I didn’t listen.

If Rhysand was gorgeous everyday, he was even more so after a performance.

His hair was mused, the inky black strands for once not gelled back, instead splayed across his forehead, almost falling into his violet eyes. I could picture him running a hand through it once he got offstage, after he felt the pressure of a maestro leave his body. 

His tuxedo was astray, his bow tie untied and hanging from around his neck, the top few buttons of his white shirt open and I swore I could see a few dark swirls disappearing under the fabric- I must be imagining it.

He had thin beads of sweat on his forehead, his temples, just like Cassian had; and I  _ knew  _ he’d gotten into the music, that he’d felt it just like the orchestra did. Because I’d watched him for most of the time, watched him embody the music and translate it to us, turn it into something beautiful.

My heart wrenched at that thought, and I tore my eyes away, looking instead at Cassian, ordering drinks across the bar, barely visible through the crowds.

“So, how was it, Feyre?” Rhysand asked, his voice barely more than a purr in the loud bar. Mor and Azriel were still there, watching, but I felt as if it were just him and I.

“Exhilarating.” I breathed out; I’d meant to just say ‘good’ and leave it at that, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t push back the passion bubbling in my chest, the giddy afterglow of a beautiful performance. “Simply breathtaking.”

Rhysand smiled broadly, for once without any snide remarks or insults at the ready. 

It was one thing I’d learned from my time with the quintet- with the symphony, Rhysand was angry and intense, brooding and harsh, always asserting that dominance above them. But with the quintet, he was instead an equal- pushing, pulling, teasing. 

I wonder if Tamlin knew that side existed.

“I thought I was about to have to fight that bartender.” Cassian announced, as if it were a conversation about the weather. He held an armful of drinks, beginning to slide them across the round table to open hands.

“You would’ve lost.” Azriel said quietly, already tucking back a quick swig of whatever bottle Cassian had passed him. I saw the tension slowly leaving his strong shoulders, falling away.

“Yeah, he’s kinda buff.” Mor teased Cassian, but shot another look at the bartender, a sly look in her eyes.

“You aren’t.” Cassian said incredulously, slamming his glass on the table.

“I may. He’s hot.” She insisted.

“You aren’t going to go fuck some guy just because I dislike him?” Cassian snorted, shaking his head. “This is a new level, Mor. A whole new fucking level.”

Azriel had become tense beside me again, and I tried my best not to look at him, to study him. It was a dynamic I hadn’t seen much in quintet.

“I thought he was cute every time we came here.” She said defensively. Cassian just scoffed, throwing back another shot.

I’d barely touched my drink- I smelled it, turning my nose up at the distinct scent. 

Rhysand leaned across Azriel, who didn’t seem to care much.

“Not your kind of drink?” He asked, quiet enough that only I heard him over the music.

I shot a glance at Mor, not wanting to offend her tastes, but she was too busy arguing animatedly with Cassian.

I shrugged. “I don’t drink much.”

“That’s good. We need someone to balance Mor out.” Rhysand said, and I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Mor’s affinity for alcohol wasn’t a well-kept secret. But honestly, what musician _ didn’t  _ have some sort vice?

“Az, Cassian, come dance with me.” Mor announced, her tone making clear that it wasn’t really an option for the two. Cassian grumbled, still stuck on his pointless feud with the bartender, as Rhysand slid out to let Azriel though.

“Most musicians drink quite a lot.” Rhysand said, staring out into the crowd as he made his statement.

“And do cocaine.” I added, and he sputtered on his drink, covering  his mouth to stop from spitting it out. I grinned.

“That’s a big jump, there.” He chuckled.

“Maybe it’s just a British thing.” I shrugged. “Especially at uni, though. Kept them going, I guess.”

“And what about you, darling? Cocaine or alcohol?” Rhys asked me, a humored grin on his face, his features almost catlike. I rolled my eyes, trying to play off the burning in my stomach, the weird pull I felt.

“None of the above. I’m too talented for that.” I answered, feigning a proud gaze with my chin held high. But Rhysand didn’t laugh, didn’t tease me. Instead, I felt the booth shift as I slid a little closer to me. 

“That you are, Feyre.” Rhysand said, no humor in his voice. I made the mistake of turning my head, meeting his dark, violet eyes, trained on me; I turned away quickly, my heart sputtering in my chest. God, what was wrong with me? I had Tamlin, probably waiting at home for me.

“You know, I honestly didn’t expect such talent from someone so young.” Rhysand said, a long finger thoughtfully tapping his chin. 

“I’m not that young.” I said defensively, frowning; I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I was sick of connotation. I’d played with those much, much older than me because I was damn good, not because my age offered me some sort of step-up. Quite the opposite.

“And how old are you?” He asked, and I felt myself blush under his stare, kicking myself silently at my reaction. Stupid.

“Twenty-two.” I answered, and when I said the words out-loud, they did feel too young. I was just a kid. “And what about you?”

Rhysand just grinned at me, that familiar look coming back into his eyes- like a cat toying with a mouse, seductive and lazy. 

“I’m an old man compared to you.” He said smoothly, adding ,”Thirty, exactly.”

It caught me by surprise- he didn’t look that old, and even then, that was so  _ young  _ to be a maestro. So young to have caught a job with the New York Symphony at that age. 

He must’ve caught the surprise in my eyes. “Yes, I know, I’m so stunningly gorgeous that you can hardly tell-”

“And you’re maestro of the New York Symphony.” I blurted, before I could stop myself. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it- the idea that someone so young had nabbed one of the most coveted music positions in the world. And I remembered, suddenly, that I wasn’t just sitting very closely to just another musician- this was the maestro of the New York Symphony, famous and enviable. I’d read tabloid articles about the man, about his scandalous past and the many people- men and women- that lusted after him. 

“And you’re principal flute for the symphony, at only twenty-two.” Rhysand shot back, shaking his head in what seemed to be awe. I’d never seen the expression on his face before. “You’ve outdone even me, Feyre darling.”

I couldn’t help the burst of pride that rushed through me. I did it, I did it on my own and for myself. Tamlin hadn’t held my hand in this, hadn’t even encouraged me to do it. I did it, and I deserved it.

“Pardon me if I’m overstepping.” He said, breaking me out of my thoughts, his dark eyes twinkling with something I couldn’t place. “But would you like to dance?”

He said it so formally, as if it were a ball, not a packed, loud bar, thrumming with music. I couldn’t help the smile that twisted onto my face, half out of amusement at his formality, half out of nerves and the fact that I’d been hoping he’d ask.

I nodded, and he grabbed my hand- the shock of it made me jump a little. He shot me the same catlike grin, and I felt electric where we touched- his calloused, large hand cradling mine gently, not at all like the demanding personality he wielded in symphony rehearsal.

‘I dance like shit,’ I wanted to tell him, but the music is so loud that I know he wouldn’t hear me. There’s something energizing about it- it’s a crowded dance floor, colored lights snaking over his skin, and the music is booming, drowning out most of the crowd. It’s not classical music, not classy and refined, but it’s still gives us the same energy.

Rhysand is looking at me in that same way he did on the stage, the first rehearsal with the quintet; like I was naked before him, the only soul in the room. It makes me feel vulnerable, but it also sets a fire in me.

And so we dance, all limbs and moving and there’s even some laughter from Rhys, laughter I can barely hear over the roar of music. He stops laughing, though, when we press together, chest to chest, and one of his hands brushes my bare thigh, covered only by a dark layer of stockings, the other clutching my waist.

His eyes burn into me as I look up to him, almost all dark, dark pupils.

We continue moving, dancing, and every part of me that brushes against him  _ ignites.  _ I’m on fire, I’m electric, and I step a little closer, my breath brushes his neck, and he growls, low and dangerous. I paused, looking up quickly, and he narrows his dark eyes, opening his mouth to say something-

A hand grabs my wrist, pulling me away from him.

For a minute, my heart is in my throat. I feel fear, pure terror, grasping my heart. It’s Tamlin, I think, and I can’t do that. Can’t do that to him, let him find me dancing up against someone he hates-

“Come dance with us, Fey!” Mor all but giggles, already half-drunk, tugging me away and into Cassian and Azriel. I let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and find Rhys still watching me, body tense and straight, his gaze predatory. Inviting me back.

It can’t happen again. I won’t let it.

And so I offer Mor a grin, dancing with her as Cassian laughs at our ridiculous motions, as even Azriel smiles, a rare sight. I sway beside Cassian and let him twirl me around dramatically, so out of place and proper against the roaring music and writhing bodies around me. 

I look back over my shoulder, looking to where Rhysand had been standing, where we’d been dancing. He was gone.

 

\-----------------

 

I wake up in another person’s bed.

My first thoughts are nice- it’s all cream-colored, fluffy sheets, soft pillows, and open blinds, sunlight lazily crawling through the room. It’s peaceful, nice, and I’m calm for once.

But then the roaring headache hits, and at the same moment I realize  _ I’m in someone else’s bed. _

__ I’m not sure what led me to scramble for the bathroom, throwing up my guts- my nasty hangover, or the idea that I’d just cheated on the person I cared about most here in New York. I couldn’t stomach it.

I threw up the contents of my stomach, which wasn’t much to begin with. And when I’m done, I press my face into the cool tile of the wall beside me- there’s a figure leaning against the doorway.

“I take it you don’t hold your alcohol well?” Cassian teases, and I can’t utter more than a weak moan in protest of him. He’s bare save for a pair of low-slung sweatpants. What a prick.

My head shoots up, remembering my predicament. 

“Did we…?” I gestured rapidly between us. He must’ve seen the horror in my eyes, because he’s doubled over, laughing wildly. I  _ try  _ not to be offended at how hilarious he finds it.

“Nope. That’s a definite no, doll.” Cassian responds, wiping tears from his eyes. 

I grumble, rubbing my eyes at the headache I feel brewing.

“Not that I wouldn’t, per se,” Cassian said, pretending to look deep in thought, cupping his chin in one hand as he gazed intuitively into the distance. “Not that I haven’t thought about it either, but-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” I growl.

“You were drunk off your ass last night,” Cassian says giddily, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. “I had no idea you’d drink- when we first met I thought you and Lucien  _ both  _ had a stick up your asses but boy was I wrong-”

“I need asprin.” I responded, tugging myself up, using the wall as leverage. I’m dressed in clothes that aren’t my own- a pair of shorts and a long t-shirt. It’s women’s clothes, at least.

“Mor helped you change last night, not me.” He said defensively, throwing his hands up.

“Where is she?” I asked, hoping someone of the same gender was nearby. Seemed less incriminating.

“Also passed out. Azriel’s out on the balcony.” He offered. 

I nod, moving past him into the room. “So, where am I?”

“Oh yeah, you may wanna know that.” Cassian shrugged. “Me and Az’s place. Our humble abode. Our casa. Our place of residence. Our party central-”

“I can’t take you sober, and I sure as hell can’t with a hangover.” I announce as I push past him, swallowing another wave of nausea. 

“You couldn’t take me, period.” Cassian snapped smugly. “Besides, you owe me a thank you. You slept in my bed, after all, and I took the couch. I’m such a freakin’ gentleman, you don’t even  _ know. _ ”

“Congrats, you’re a half decent human.”

“Mor slept in Azriel’s room.” He said quickly, like it was a secret piece of juicy gossip. And it was- I was all ears, hangover or not.

“Did they-”

“I don’t think so.” He interrupted me. “Az has had it out for her for awhile- he wouldn’t screw it up drunk.” 

“Ah.” I said. A weird part of me was disappointed- I thought they’d be good for each other, even though I wasn’t going to say anything about that to them. That’d be creepy.

I found my concert black attire thrown in the corner of the room, along with my gig bag- holding my music, flute, and my wallet. Thank the lord someone had the idea to remember it, by the way last night had went.

I didn’t even remember last night, honestly. After I’d left Rhys. But I was here, in one piece, and nothing felt too weird.

“What happened last night?” I asked hesitantly, wincing as I ran over the many,  _ many  _ scenarios that could’ve played out.

“Not much, honestly. I’ve had wilder.” Cassian said, shrugging. He’d moved to his bed, sprawled out while I picked up the rest of my belongings.

“Where’s Rhys go?” I asked, even as I felt strangely embarrassed doing so- as if it weren’t my place, and I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

Cassian smirked, a toothy grin on his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah, it’s why I asked, asshole.” I snapped. Jerk.

Cassian laughed. “Oh, I see why he likes you. You can play along just fine with us.”

Liked me? I’d hope so, I was his principal flute. If not, I’d be replaced in a heartbeat.

“That’s a cute nickname though.  _ Rhys. Oh Rhys I you strong handsome conductor, use me like your baton-” _

__ “Bye.” I said quickly, moving to leave, but he held up a hand, compromising.

“Nah, he ran off after we stopped you two from screwing on the dancefloor.” Cassian said, his tone bored as he played with the drawstrings of his sweats, trying to align them. I raised my eyebrows, feeling very defensive; I tried not to blush, but it was no use. He took one look at my red face and cackled.

“We were just dancing. For fun.” I said quickly, shaking my head at his look.

“Yeah, sure. Practically eating each other alive out there.” Cassian remarked, shuddering. “I’ve never seen that look on his face before and I hope I live my life without ever seeing it again.”

I nodded,  trying to seem uninterested.

“He gets in moods like that, though. He never stays the whole time we go out, and I’m honestly surprised he even went tonight. First concert of the season puts a shit ton of pressure on him, and normally he’s with reporters and critics the whole night, and then making the board eat out of his hand.” Cassian explained. “But I told him you were coming and he decided he would, too.”

I had turned red again- he came, for me. Or maybe not, maybe I’m just being overconfident- he’d probably just needed to let loose, with his friends. I was just the little tag-along.

And none of it mattered, anyways, I reminded myself. I had Tamlin. I should be ashamed of myself.

I found my phone in my gig bag, at the bottom of the mess; as soon as I turned it over, it flooded with what had to be almost a hundred frantic texts, all from Tamlin.

_ Where are you? _

__ _ Honey, did you get lost? _

__ _ Answer me _

__ _ Feyre, answer  your phone _

__ _ Damnit, do you know how to use it? _

__ _ I’m waiting for you outside _

__ _ Whatever, I’m going home _

__ _ Is this about the quintet? _

__ _ Lucien said you went out but he wouldn’t tell me where. _

__ _ Call me. _

__ _ CALL. _

__ It was just the start of a long line of texts, and I felt myself go numb. God, I’d used Tamlin, betrayed his trust. I just wanted to have fun, to go out with people who didn’t talk for me, but instead let me just be me. I wanted to be away from him.

But he was too good, just too good for me. He’d helped me so much when I moved to this foreign city, and I should be grateful.

“Feyre?” Cassian said nervously behind me, sitting up on his bed.

“I’ve got to go.” I said quickly, shoving all of my belongings back into my bag.

“Is this about Tamlin?” He answered before I could leave. He’d moved up in front of me, faster than I could reach the door. His face was painted with concern.

“No, I just have to be back,  _ now-” _

__ “Feyre, I’ve seen how he talks to you, how he treats you.” Cassian said. “You shouldn’t put up with that-”

“Cassian, I’ve got to go.  _ Now.”  _ I said my words with such venom, such fire that he’d finally closed his mouth, shaking his head. He moved, just enough to let me slide past him.

“Thank you for letting me stay here last night.” I told him, feeling bad for snapping at him. But I could already feel the clock ticking in my head, pulling me back to Tamlin.

I didn’t hear his response, already leaving their apartment, rushing down the hallways. 

I realized one thing I hadn’t noticed before- the tattoos on his chest, they were real. Not a figment of my imagination, like I’d once thought. They were dark, swirling lines, marrying the area under his collarbone and travelling down his chest, snaking around the shoulders. 

I’d only seen a small fraction of Rhysand’s own markings, barely visible under the pulsing lights last night. He’d moved his arm, his shirt following the trail, and my eyes had latched onto the skin it bared, dark with markings. It looked like Cassian’s.

I wonder what it all meant. 

\------------------

 

The apartment was a disaster.

There were vases on the floor, smashed, the pretty, fresh flowers that had once been in them not withering on the ground. The kitchen tables were askew, some on their sides. The pillows from the couch were across the room, a few pulled open and shredded. The bedroom door was open ajar, and I held my breath as I poked in.

“Tam?” I asked softly, pushing open the door.

My clothes were taken from the dresser, throw across the ground. The picture of us, smiling in Central Park, the sun in our faces, was on the ground, shattered.

Tamlin sat on our bed, his head in his hands.

“Tamlin?” I asked again, quietly. He didn’t move, but his chest was rising and falling, a little too fast for comfort. 

I felt another wave of guilt hit me, my gut clenching. I was such a terrible person, such an awful human being. I’d done this, done this to someone I cared about.

I reached out to lightly touch his shoulder.

The minute I did, he moved, fast and unable for me to react. He grabbed my wrist tightly, twisting it, making a pain run through my arm. I gasped in pain, feeling the bones ache.

“Where were you?” He asked tightly, his teeth gritted. He looked terrible, his eyes rimmed with red, his body tensing, as if he were about to  _ fight  _ me. 

“I- I went out with friends.” I said, stuttering over my words. This was Tamlin, he wouldn’t hurt me. He was just worried, scared for my safety in this big city.

“No, you went out with  _ them.”  _ He hissed, baring his teeth. My mind went blank, scrambling for an answer, anything to make him happy.

“I’m sorry, Tam.” I said, and I tried my best to be strong, to look him in the eyes and demand that  _ he  _ was the one wrong- but I couldn’t. I felt tears sting my eyes, a few sliding down my face. 

He took one look at me and sneered. “No, you aren’t. You’re just like them.”

“What’s so wrong with them, Tam?” I begged, needing answers. I was in the middle of this damn thing, in the middle of their war, and I didn’t even have a clue why it was happening.

My tears turned angry, and it was my turn to growl back at him.

“You keep telling me what to do, how to feel, and I don’t even know  _ why  _ you hate them. You won’t give me a true reason to.” I spat back. 

“You want a reason, Feyre? You  _ really  _ want to know?” He asked, so low and quiet that for once, I was scared. He wasn’t my Tamlin- he was unpredictable, chaotic and dark. His face looked so pained, so stretched with worry, horror, and fiery anger, that I almost didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Remember how I didn’t want you to meet my family? My father, mother, or sister?” I nodded my head, not sure what else I was supposed to do. He twisted my wrist more, to where I felt it may break- his grip was so tight, and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“They’re dead, Feyre. All of them. Because of him.” 

 

\----------------

 

“We met in middle school, a lifetime ago. I’d been this quiet, angry kid, and Rhysand had came out of nowhere. He’d moved from somewhere in the Middle East, moving after all of the shit starting stirring up there. He didn’t have any friends, wouldn’t hardly talk to anyone. He could barely even speak English, only what his mom had tried to teach him. They’d moved pretty quickly over here. We became friends fast- the weird kid and the quiet one. Pianist and a violinist. It worked.

“My grandfather- I know I’ve never mentioned him before, but I try not to. He wasn’t a good man, never was. He was involved with one of the largest crime scenes in New York, laundering money through all the businesses he controlled. He was a powerful man, my grandfather. Before someone finally murdered him.

“He had ties somewhere in the Middle East, too. Wherever Rhysand’s dad had came from. I don’t even know the details- God, I don’t even want to continue. It’s fucking messed up, Feyre. You should’ve just believed me.

“Apparently Rhysand’s dad had screwed my grandfather over in a deal. Kept some money for himself,  to get across the seas, away from there. Grandfather didn’t like that- but how was I supposed to know? I was a kid, for christ’s sake, I just knew that I had a friend and I loved him. For once, I had someone who understood me, someone like me.

“And I brought Rhysand over for Thanksgiving, sometime before my father cut off ties with grandfather completely- Rhysand’s parents didn’t celebrate, so I felt like I was doing him some big favor. My grandfather had took one look at him, asked his name, and then left. Just like that. I should’ve known, should’ve known something was up. I was just a stupid kid.

“And then when Rhysand gets home, he comes home to a burning house, his dad standing outside just screaming, screaming into the sky. He’d gone half mad- he had a right to. They didn’t die from a fire, they died from a bullet to the head. His sister and mother, gone, covered up like that. My grandfather didn’t accept failure, didn’t accept betrayal. He dealt in blood and money, and that was it.

“Rhysand’s dad was a cop over here- they didn’t keep a low profile, like they should’ve. I don’t think they really knew who they had messed with. So his dad, a few of his partners, had this great idea to take down my grandfather’s crime empire. 

“Except they didn’t play fairly and they fucking  _ knew  _ it. They came for my family, not for grandfather. It’s the first time I’d realized that not all cops are fair- some are just out for revenge, out to fix how they’d been wronged. My father lunged to them, and they shot. My mother had moved, to protect me; they shot her, my sister next as she ran to her side. His dad, his partners- didn’t even give them a  _ chance _ . They were dead before the cops even came, because no matter what they did it wasn’t enough to make up for my grandfather’s sins.

“And I remember hiding under my bed, where my mom had told me to. I didn’t move for almost a day, waiting for them to come back. But I’d heard the gunshots and I knew what happened, I just didn’t want to accept it. The paramedics finally lured me out, hours later. 

“I wondered how Rhysand’s dad, his cop buddies, how they’d spin it- wondered if they’d tell the public that my family had attacked first, that the cops were just using self-defense. All of it, bullshit. 

“But they didn’t. They went to court, and even though I was hollow as can I be, I was happy. I didn’t get blood, but I got to see his dad locked away forever. I went with my aunt, and Rhysand- he went back and forth from orphanage to foster house. A pathetic childhood, a worse adolescence. It’s a miracle he kept playing, a miracle he got into conservatory.

“It’s not a miracle- it’s a curse. I have to see this fucking man every day of my life, have him sneer at me, try to exert power over me- all because we got caught up in a  _ game  _ played by adults. But he’s just like his father now. Looks just like him.

“Sometimes, I can even picture the gun in Rhysand’s hand, instead of his father’s, that stupid fucking badge winking at me, like it  _ knows  _ it shouldn’t be on his body.”

 

\-----------

I didn’t know when we slid to the ground, when he’d sat in front of me, his eyes glazed, faraway. I didn’t know when I’d started crying, when I’d stopped looking at him because I couldn’t.

I didn’t know what to think, at all.

It wasn’t either of their faults- they were just kids. Like he said- just kids, caught up in a game played by adults. 

But I could understand the hatred. I could feel it, inside of me. I felt sick, sicker than a hangover or guilt. They were in their own game now- maybe with less blood, less fighting, but still nasty and horrendous. And I felt like I’d somehow stumbled in the crossfire, confused and unknowing.

“I’m so, so sorry.” I said, pathetically, even though we both knew it meant nothing. It couldn’t fix anything. He shook his head, his hair hanging down to frame his face. He stared at the hardwood floor, tears dripping quietly below him.

“I’m working to get him out.” Tamlin said suddenly, as if possessed by his words, possessed by the opportunity. It took me by surprise, a dark surge of worry in me.

“What?” I echoed, worried for his response. Dreading it.

“I know someone on the board- I can’t tell you her name. It’s too high profile, at this level. Enough to get you blacklisted by symphonies across the world.” Tamlin said, and I could see it then- the light in his eyes. It was unhinged, and it felt- crazed. 

I didn’t breathe.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” I said quickly, shaking my head. He grabbed my shoulders, seeing the horrified look in my eyes.

“You don’t  _ get it,  _ Feyre.” He insisted, and he shook me, roughly, as if trying to slam his words into me. “I’ve got so much dirt on the man, and most of it is truth, all the shit he’s done. We could go to the press anyday and have him gone. Maybe even jailed, Feyre. His little empire, his court-”

Tamlin laughed, hoarse, without humor. “He’s done for. We’re just sitting back as the information keeps rolling in. It’s all so believable, so  _ him.” _

__ “He’s not like that, Tam.” I said quickly, quietly. I was going to be sick.

“You don’t know him. He’s the reason my family was  _ murdered.  _ Murdered, Feyre.” Tamlin growled, his voice increasing.

“Tamlin, that was his father, not him.” 

“Back then, yes. But now? Now he’s just like him. Just as power-hungry and crazed, out for revenge for losing his family. Just wait, Feyre. He’s just using you, like he does everyone else in his life.” Tamlin said, and there was even pity in his voice, sad and piercing.

I shook my head, but I already felt the seed of doubt growing in me- what if he was right? Rhysand hadn’t even mentioned Tamlin around me, hadn’t mentioned his childhood- what if it was for a reason? To keep me from suspecting I was just a pawn?

“I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this, Feyre.” Tamlin said, and he wrapped me into his arms, warm and not at all comforting. I didn’t push back- I was too numb, my mind still reeling from all of it.

The New York Symphony was deadlier, nastier than I’d thought. I should’ve gotten out when I had the chance. 

“Does Lucien know?” I asked Tamlin quietly, my voice muffled by his strong chest, still heaving for breath underneath me. It stilled at the question.

“Yes.” He said simply, not wanting to add more. I nodded against him, my hand feeling trapped against his chest. For once, I didn’t feel comfortable touching, stroking him- I felt uneasy. Like he was a pet gone rabid, one that may attack me if I acted out of line.

“I need to go out.” I announced suddenly, pushing back from him as fast as I could. As if that would somehow save me from his response.

But he’d calmed down now, and he just seemed tired. A broken, tired man. 

“It’s dangerous.” Tamlin said, shaking his head, and for a moment I was struck by it all.

It wasn’t dangerous- it was exciting, fun, new. It was everything I hadn’t known I needed.

“You need time to breathe.” I countered.

“We always spend Sundays together.” He pleaded, that look back in his eyes. I couldn’t  meet it- he was right. We’d always spend Sundays together, curled around one another. Breakfast in bed, sunlight filtering onto our skin, slowly loving one another. We never left the house on Sundays.

Suddenly it wasn’t warm anymore. It was constricting. I wonder what he would’ve said to me, had I asked to leave, to go outside on Sundays.

“Not today. We need space.” I said quickly.

“Is your location still on? On your phone?” He asked, and something nasty, nauseating curled in my throat. I’d always been watched under his protective eye- why was it any different this time?

But it was. I didn’t respond, just nodded quickly at him and grabbed a bag.

“How long will you be gone?” Tamlin asked, that pleading tone in his voice, beckoning me.  _ Please don’t go. _

__ “I don’t know, Tam. I just need space. I need to breathe.” I said, and I realized it so much it hurt- I needed to breathe, desperately, as far away from him as possible.

But I’d still be under his watchful eye. Always.

I stuffed clothes into the bag quickly, throwing my toiletries in there, the basic things I needed. I grabbed my gig bag, too, even though I didn’t feel like touching the fine instrument. It almost felt as if it had gotten me into this situation in the first place.

But I couldn’t blame this on an instrument- this was all me. Digging my own grave, suffocating slowly.

I didn’t say goodbye, even after he followed after me to the door, begging me to stay. 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As more light is shed on the symphony board and Rhysand, Feyre finds herself pushing them all away at Tamlin’s warnings. She finds she’s not the only one lost in it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m a big liar. I’m too attached to this fic to stop at just a two-part one shot. So get ready for more chapters!
> 
> This chapter’s song is ‘Uncomfortable’ by Wallows. I know it’s not classical, and may not fit perfectly, but it’s been in my head for DAYS.

I was forever thankful for the post-performance weekends; it meant that we were all off until rehearsals picked back up on Tuesday, instead of Monday. Lord knows I needed the break- after all Tamlin had told me, I wasn’t sure if I could face seeing the quintet again, let alone my maestro.

“Staying another night?” Lucien asked me at breakfast that morning, flipping a pancake, dressed in pajama pants, a snarky apron wrapped around his lean form. I swallowed down the guilt that rushed me- Lucien was too nice. He’d let me in yesterday without so much as a second glance. He probably already knew that my sudden arrival was because of a fight.

“It’s okay, you know. I don’t mind,” He offered when I didn’t respond. He shot me a look over his shoulder, around a curtain of fiery hair, and I chose instead to gaze out the big windows flanking his dining room.

“I don’t know.” I sighed. Lucien flicked off the oven burner, pushing the pancakes away from him. He slipped into a barstool across from me, giving a stern look. I rolled my eyes, even though the movement felt forced, the playful attitude weak. 

“So, this isn’t a normal fight, is it?” He asked. I winced- I didn’t think I  ran to him  _ that  _ much. I hated that Tam and I  had different forms of fights, all brilliantly exhibited over the past year. 

“No, it’s not.” I said finally, sighing and daring to meet his concerned gaze. Lucien was too kind, too empathetic for his own good.

“Talk, kiddo.” Lucien encouraged, waving his hand to get me  to continue. 

My words felt like concrete in my mouth, difficult to get out. “He told me about Rhysand. His past.”

Lucien’s face dropped, his mouth turning into a long, thin line. 

“Oh.” Was all he said- as if he didn’t expect Tamlin to actually tell me. 

“I don’t know how to feel about it.” I said finally, my fingers working at my temples, trying to ward away a brewing headache. Maybe it would’ve been better if I hadn’t asked. Now, that little bit of freedom and life that I’d latched onto felt spoiled and rotten.

“It’s not exactly a nice bedtime story.” Lucien said, his words joking but his face still stony.

“Neither of them did anything wrong.” I admitted, quickly. “But I can see why they hate each other.”

“It’s more than just that, you know.” Lucien mumbled, not meeting my eyes. 

“Okay, then talk, kiddo.” I mimicked his earlier words, forcing a grin on my face, even if a hand had just grasped my heart, pulling. How could there even be  _ more? _

__ “Rhysand, he’s tied in with a lot more than it seems.” Lucien sighed, running a hand over his face. “Damn, it’s too early for this talk.

“What do you know about the symphony board?” He asked, gauging my response.

“As little as possible.” I admitted. I knew it existed out there, pulling hidden strings, but I didn’t know anything other than that.

“The symphony board is even worse than the actual symphony, if you can believe it. Nasty, fickle people. Tam was on it once, before they replaced him without thinking twice. But he’d learned a lot while he was there,” Lucien started. “One of the board members was desperately in love with him- this awful, bitch of a woman. She’s probably the reason he won the concertmaster job in the first place, if we’re being honest. She basically controls the whole symphony board.”

I watched his face, the way his teeth were grinding, his jaw tense. He looked as if this pained him. I’d heard about the symphony board, of course- they controlled almost all of what the symphony did. But they were little more than ideas to me. They never came to rehearsals, had never talked to me alone.

Hell, I probably wouldn’t even recognize them if they did. The thought scares me- them blending in, trying to pick up on any gossip, any ideas to give them leverage.

“My father is on the board, as well.” Lucien said quietly, his voice dark. 

I frowned- Lucien had never mentioned family. I’d assumed he didn’t have any.

“My father has ties to Tamlin’s grandfather.” He admitted, meeting my eyes with an intense gaze. “I don’t know how much- I left that part of my family as soon as I turned eighteen. But he’s tied to them, tied to the symphony. I don’t know how deep it all runs. I do know there’s something not right with it all.”

“His grandfather got away with it all?” I asked, before I could stop myself. 

“He’s a powerful man, Feyre. Rhysand’s dad wasn’t the first to cross him, but he certainly was the last.” Lucien responded. The words sends another stab to my chest- I couldn’t imagine losing my family like Rhys had, losing that little bit of shelter he’d had after moving to a brand new world. 

My family was safe, at least- what I had left of them.

“Rhysand isn’t innocent. You have to at least know that, Feyre.” Lucien told me, catching my eyes. He was very still.

“I’d assume not.” I said, giving a small, pained laugh, trying to make a joke of it all. Lucien ignored it.

“He did a lot to get to his position. A lot that has to do with the board. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it- but I am saying that there’s something wrong with that board. And they put him into that position.” Lucien says, his amber eyes dark and stern.

“What does the quintet have to do with this?” I ask.

“I don’t know, honestly. All I know is that they came soon after him, taking the higher positions in the symphony. I can only assume they’re tied up in whatever the board is doing, and the board is tied up in whatever Tamlin’s grandfather is playing at.”

It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s like a collection of separate thoughts, none of them overlapping, none of them connecting. 

I needed answers.

 

\----------------

 

Rehearsal on Tuesday was absolutely normal.

I felt like everything had changed, though- gone was the familiar, comfortable feel the symphony had lulled me into. I felt like a fish in a bay of sharks, bleeding desperately. 

I think Mor might have noticed it, the way I couldn’t keep still, the tension in my shoulders. We were changing between pieces, going from Beethoven to Hindemith, my fingers shaking as I switched the sheet music.

“You okay, Fey?” She asked, quietly, seated next to me. Another perk of being principal chairs- the members of the quintet were all clustered in the middle of the woodwind section, me to Mor’s right. If I turned around, I’d see Lucien and Azriel side by side, behind me, and Cassian behind them, arguing with the second horn.

I nodded, not looking at her. I could see her frown out of the corner of my eye.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” She asked, motioning to his empty chair near the front of the stage. He hadn’t shown up to rehearsal. For once, though, Rhysand didn’t make a snide remark, or angrily demand the whereabouts of his concertmaster.

Rhysand was uncharacteristically quiet today. He’d given few comments on the pieces, all without their usual bite. I never met his gaze, though I felt it on me often, even when I was in the middle of a sea of rests within the music. 

“I don’t know.” I said simply. It wasn’t a lie.

She opened her mouth to say more, but Rhysand had already lifted his hands in a silent signal, about to give the downbeat.

 

\---------------

 

Quintet has me on edge.

I didn’t talk through most of it, and the rest could tell, I knew it. They kept glancing in my direction, silently prodding me to offer input, to joke with them like I usually did.

Lucien and I were quiet, though. I even messed up, stupidly, on something I’d known since undergrad. A piece I’d performed maybe twelve times. My mind was just running, going over Tam and Lucien’s words.

Rhysand didn’t show up for rehearsal, either. Technically, he was only needed for a few pieces that called for piano- but he always stayed the whole rehearsal, offering input, occasionally conducting us when we needed a strict beat. 

But he didn’t show up, and I noticed.

 

\-----------------

 

The week flies by at a breakneck pace, full ofrehearsals and practices.

Rhysand isn’t normal, and neither am I. Nothing feels the same anymore to me, but the symphony seems the same; for everyone except him and I. 

I see it in the way he stops talking as much, in the way the fire has left his movements and the way he doesn’t snap or insult. He’s bothered by something, bothered deeply.

I want to find him and talk to him. I want the fire back in his eyes.

But I don’t. 

He finally came to quintet at the end of the week, and even his playing was limp. He hit everything perfectly, the music beautiful, but it was without its normal energetic bite, without the brooding man behind it. 

Rhysand looks at me a lot, but I don’t look back. They all look at me often, now that I’ve clicked the little switch inside me that reads  _ off.  _ I don’t talk much. I’m scared of what my words may say, what I might ask them about if I open my mouth.

I moved back in with Tamlin after Tuesday. We kissed and made love and danced and pretended to be elated that we’d overcome the barrier between us, that we were no longer fighting. Maybe he wasn’t pretending, but I was. 

The quintet’s concert is set for next month. The rest- save for Rhysand, in his new skin- are elated to finally have a date, to finally have a performance to work for, instead of just learning to play with one another. I would be excited, but I can already feel the fight with Tamlin coming on.

 

\-----------

 

I was leaving quintet that Friday, ready to make a quick exit as Mor and Cassian were preoccupied with a small argument, a voice called out to me in the hallway.

“Ms. Archeron.” It was someone I’d never met before- a short, thin woman, with silky black hair and gray, almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed immaculately in a plain gray dress, a string of dark rubies adorning her neck.

“Yes?” I responded, wincing at how hoarse I sounded, after Tam and I’s fight on Sunday. 

I wondered if she was one of the board members, coming to interrogate me.

“I’m Amren, the symphony director.” She- Amren- said simply, holding out a hand to me. Her face was stony, blank. I took it, shocked at how firm her grasp was, for such a wisp of a lady.

“As you know, you signed a contract for the duties of the orchestra. And as a principal chair, you have extra responsibilities.” Amren spoke, walking with me through the hallways, her heels clicking out a stern beat. 

I nodded- I’d signed onto the many responsibilities they’d demanded. It was the basic things- symphony, of course, quintet, occasionally other chamber groups if needed. Promotional performances for the community, occasionally interviews with critics and television news, photoshoots. 

“Rhysand and I have talked, and agreed that as such a young, new addition to the symphony, we thought it would be appropriate for you to perform a recital.” Amren told me. “A way to prove yourself, if you see it that way. Critics invited, the boards, the New York Arts program- everyone.”

She must have seen the look on my face, fear curling at my insides. She added, “You’ll be fine. What better way to learn to swim, than to throw you into the ocean?”

Amren stopped to shoot me a grin, a cat-like smile that made her seem downright sharkish.

“When?” I asked simply, trying not to think too hard about it. 

“Two months.” She responded. “Should be plenty enough time. Contact Rhysand if you want more details.” 

And with that she was off, walking down the hallway in a flurry of heel clicks and short, powerful strides. She was little and thin, but she scared the everliving hell out of me. 

Almost as much as the recital did.

God, I wasn’t ready. I’d earned my place here, and I’d defend my talent to the ends of the Earth, but this was a new level of pressure. There’d already been critics publishing about our first concert, little more than a week ago, and although Lucien had begged me not to, I looked at them.

It was great, at first; I’d almost cried. Most of the top reviews, by the biggest classical critics, were praising the concert, praising my solos. I knew I’d have a target on me as soon as I took the spot, with such a young age and relatively unknown background. Of course they’d be ready to pick me apart.

But underneath the many praises were a few scathing reviews.

_ Feyre Archeron may have weaseled her way into one of the most sought-after positions in the modern classical scene, but her tone and ability is reflective of her age. Much too dark, too dramatic, no matter the circumstance, completely ignoring the music in favor of her own ideas. _

__ _ The principal flautist seems to be little more than a pretty face hiding an underdeveloped, cliched talent. She seems out of her element, sticking out of the beautiful blend of the New York Symphony like a sore thumb. _

__ It went on and on, a few critics tearing me apart. I hadn’t cried, though I wanted to. Lucien had told me of his own horror stories the days after his first concert. He assured me it would die down. 

But Lucien fit in- he was older than me, but still young and handsome, exactly  what the Symphony sought after. And I’d read his reviews after his first concert- they weren’t near as scathing.

And now the Symphony would be inviting those snakes into a private showing of me, giving them more ammunition to shoot me with. And the board- if what Lucien had hinted at was true, they could easily remove me from the symphony with a wave of the hand. Maybe even blacklist me as a musician, telling other symphonies that I shouldn’t be hired. 

I can’t fuck this up. I don’t have another option.

 

\--------------

 

“Damn. They didn’t make me do my recital until my second season there.” Lucien told me, sipping on his hot cider. He looked ever the picture of the artsy musician across from me- a dark, fitted peacoat, a thick, olive-colored scarf tied around his slender neck. Lucien thrived in the autumn weather, blending in with the rich colors of fall.

I, on the other hand, did not. I had mittens on, even inside the coffee shop, because I couldn’t even handle the cities’ October weather. It was a miracle I survived winter last year. Even the walk from rehearsal, after talking to Amren, to the little coffee shop had rendered me frozen.

“I know. I have a few ideas, but they could hate me even if I nail the pieces, if they don’t like the rep.” I complained, shaking my head. It was a lose-lose scenario any way I looked at it.

“Are you going to have the quintet play a piece?” He inquired; it wasn’t odd for a soloist to invite their own smaller ensemble onto the stage for one piece in their recital, to show flexibility. But his question was a lot more complex than that.

“I don’t know.” I shot back, swallowing another gulp of sugary hot chocolate, so sweet it made my teeth ache. “Amren told me they’re inviting not just critics, but the cities’ arts board, and the symphony board. May as well just crucify me now and be done with it.”

Lucien had stilled, his cup of cider halfway between the table and his mouth.

“The symphony board?” He echoed, as if he’d misheard me. I nodded, scowling at the idea that they’d be there. 

“They never come to those things.” He commented. 

“Is that good?” I asked- he’d caught me off guard. I thought it was customary for the board to scope out the new hire, perfectly natural. Apparently not.

“I don’t know.” Lucien said, still frowning. 

“Maybe it’s just because I’m young.” I said, searching for an explanation. Hoping I was right. 

“Are you going to tell Tamlin?” He asked me.

“I’ll tell him about the recital, when….” I trailed off, unsure. “When this all blows over.”

“Just a word of advice, love. Don’t tell him about the board attending.” Lucien said, his voice bleak and strangely still. He was still eyeing me like a hawk, as if the answer would pop out on my features any moment.

I nodded. I didn’t bother telling him that I hadn’t planned on telling Tamlin, anyways; there was a lot I didn’t tell Tamlin nowadays.

I sipped my hot chocolate in silence as Lucien stared out the window, to the crowds on the street. I had a sudden pang in my chest, a sudden longing.

I missed the rest of the quintet. I missed Cassian’s flirty comments, his fiery demeanor when he and Mor argued over a composer’s work, missed Mor, the way she’d talk quietly to me in a sidebar conversation while everyone else moved around us. Missed Azriel, for the few ways he’d silently shown me his own friendship, tugging me alongside him when we all scrambled  through crowds, separating me from unfriendly men when we all went out dancing.

And I missed Rhysand. 

I missed his sly comments, missed watching a smirk creep onto his features and he and Cassian exchanged banter across the table. Missed going drinking with them all, missed him trying to find the perfect drink for me. Missed his stares, his quiet conversations and musings over the music.

It had only been a little under two months with those people, but it was two months of energetic rehearsals, of grabbing coffee after rehearsal, of post-rehearsal conversations that left us late. I hadn’t realized they’d become such close friends to me.

“It’ll be alright.” Lucien said, grabbing my hand in a friendly gesture across the table. He’s talking about Tamlin, about the recital, thinking that was what caused my pained expression.

I’d lost something valuable, and it wasn’t Tamlin.

 

\---------------

 

“What the fuck is this?” Tamlin had yelled, before I’d even stepped fully into the door. I shut it quickly, my heart in my throat, even though I was pretty sure our neighbors already knew about his temper.

I wasn’t braced for an argument- I’d just gotten back from the cafe with Lucien, feeling tired and content from the hot chocolate in my veins. I was expecting a quiet evening of practice.

But Tamlin was holding his tablet so hard that I worried he may break it.

He had a poster pulled up on the screen, an announcement from the New York Times. I could see our publicity shot clearly on the refined poster- the quintet, all leaning back against Rhysand’s piano, instruments in hand, dressed in silver. I could even see Rhysand sitting on the piano’s bench, that familiar, seductive twist of his lips. I hadn’t seen that expression in a while.

I had no defense here, no excuse this time. 

“It’s unfair of you to keep me from doing what I love.” I shot back, mustering all of my strength, my frustration into my words. 

Tamlin just shook his head, a snarl on his lips. I couldn’t imagine him with a violin, making delicate, beautiful music right now; all I could picture was a vicious man, hands made for destruction.

“I kept you from it because they’re dangerous. They’re going to fuck your whole life over- everything you’ve ever worked for. Is that what you want, Feyre?”

“You don’t know shit about what I want,” I spat, shoving a finger into his face. I wasn’t trying to mend anything now- I was angry, pissed off, on fire. He had no damn right.

It was all bubbling over, all the fights and spats of the past few months.

“I know what’s best for you.” Tamlin roared, slamming a hand down on the counter between us. “I’m trying to keep you safe because you’re too goddamn stupid to do it yourself.”

“Maybe you should go run off to the symphony board.” I shot back- I wish I had more ammunition, more things to hurt him with, just like he hurt me- a name, a face, anything. “I heard you have a woman waiting for you.”

I expected a flame, an explosion- but Tamlin goes stiff.

“Who told you about that?” He said, his voice barely more than a dangerous whisper. I feel goosebumps snaking over my arms, wondering maybe if this time I’d really, really messed up. If I’d toed the line too far.

“It’s not important-”

“Feyre, if you want to be safe, you should never repeat that. Never again.” Tamlin was shaking now- I wasn’t sure if it were out of fear, out of fury, at me or at them. I was frozen to the spot, even though my veins were full of fire still.

“I’m sick of the double standard. I can do whatever I want to, just like you can.” I said finally, gritting my teeth against the sneer on his face. “If I want to be in that damn quintet, I will. If I want to fuck around with the board, I will. I’ll do whatever I  _ damn please. _ ”

I should’ve known not to poke, not to provoke. But I’d never been good at self-control, never known when not to engage. I probably deserved it when Tamlin slapped me, so hard and fast that I had tears streaming down my face before I could figure what had happened.

It stung, and my tears were hot and angry, and I couldn’t stop them.

“Oh, shit, Fey, I didn’t mean to-”

He’s talking but I’m moving, unconsciously, just like my tears had been. My body knows what to do when my mind can’t work. He’s mumbling behind me, words of apologies and groveling up to me. He’s sobbing behind me, guilt bleeding through his words, through him.

But I don’t stop. 

I grab my gig bag. I never really unpacked when I came back from Lucien’s last Tuesday. I wonder if it were my subconscious knowing that we’d be playing this game again, knowing that I’d be leaving soon, retreating from battle.

Tamlin’s on the floor, crumpled over his knees, still crying out apologies to me, pleading. He’s still crying as I leave, still begging me to stay, to talk, to forgive him.

I call Mor when I reach the bottom of our apartment complex. I sit on the stairs, and I cry.

 

\-----------------

 

Mor has a cold washcloth pressed against my face, soothing the stinging skin beneath. The cheek Tamlin had hit, now red and fiery.

I’m sitting at her table, looking around her apartment. I’d never been here before- I’d been to Cassian and Azriel’s place, right around the block, but never Mor’s. 

It’s absolutely breathtaking, large and dressed in startling blacks and whites, shades of gray and the occasionally bright, blinding yellow. It’s like the night sky, beauty in monochrome colors.

It’s all granite and marble, shiny and sparkling. There’s multiple hallways, an upstairs, a beautiful balcony, and I’m amazed she can afford the place. The symphony pays graciously, but even among the best musicians in the world, this place would be hard to come by.

And the balcony. It overlooks the harbor, looking over the glittering waves in the moody weather outside. I want to paint it, even though I stopped painted after I’d moved in with Tamlin. It was too messy for his nice apartment.

Mor’s sitting cross-legged on the countertop, a few feet in front of me. She’s watching me, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” She tells me finally, breaking the silence. I can’t help but look at her, perplexed at her words.

“I can’t believe he was doing all of this, and we didn’t even know.” She explains. I shook my head.

“It’s just a fight.” I respond weakly, feeling odd about the fact that I have to defend Tam and I, defend our right to fight. To hit one another.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” Mor asked quietly. I shook my head- I couldn’t lie to her, not after she was showing me so much kindness.

“I know. I saw bruises on your wrist when we came back from the weekend. I told Rhysand, because I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just me seeing it.” She said, still studying me, her golden curls falling around her face, looking like an angel even without a stitch of makeup. 

She’s talking about the bruises Tam had accidentally left that on the day we fought, after I’d been out all night with them. I thought I’d covered it up on Tuesday with makeup and long-sleeves, a thick bracelet. Apparently not.

“Is he okay, Rhysand?” I ask quickly. It’s out of the blue, I know, but it’s the first time I’ve really talked to her in a week, and I can’t control it. She knows him, she has the information, and I  _ need  _ to know.

Mor looks at me then, a wry smile spreading across her face. “You both are so funny. Both going through heavy shit, both barely shutting themselves off from everyone- and yet, when you finally come to, you’re both so damn focused on the other.”

I redden- I hoped I wasn’t that obvious. But the thought that Rhysand had asked about me, had worried- it made me feel better. Lighter.

“He’s going through stuff right now.” Mor tells me, tipping her head to the side. “I would tell you, but it’s not my place.”

I nodded. At least Rhysand had someone to talk to, even if it wasn’t me. 

“He knows Tamlin. Knew him really well, still knows how he plays.” Mor continues, still giving me that odd look. “I think we both assumed the worst about the bruises, but Rhysand took it worse. I told him after rehearsal Tuesday, and then he skipped quintet.”

“What did he do?” I asked, going still. He hadn’t talked to Tamlin, surely- Tamlin would’ve told me, probably would’ve withdrawn me himself from the symphony, locked me away in his apartment. 

“He wouldn’t tell me.” Mor said. “I know he went to the board about something, though.”

“Tamlin told me about Rhysand’s past.” I said, quickly. It was all coming out of me now, out of my control. I needed answers and words and information, needed to be in the light, for once.

Mor laughed, throwing her head back, her white teeth flashing. “No, Tamlin told you about his  _ own  _ past. His own bastardized version of the story.”

I waited for her to continue.

“It’s not my place to tell you the rest.” Mor said. “I’ll leave that to Rhysand. But know that there’s a lot he’s not telling you. After all, everyone is a hero in their own story.”

I wasn’t sure how much I agreed with that. I didn’t feel like a hero in my story- I felt lost, searching for answers that everyone else seemed to hold except for me.

“I will tell you some, though. The woman who controls most of the board is Amarantha Prythian. If you can live your life without ever seeing or hearing from her, do that.” Mor began, a dark look flashing through her eyes. “She and Rhysand made a deal. I don’t know the extent of it all. The board is made up of symphony members and arts executives from all over New York, as you probably know.”

I nodded. I’d looked it up once, skimmed over the names. It hadn’t meant much to me.

“There’s Amarantha, of course. No one officially leads the board, save for Amren, the director, but all the power is in Amarantha. She’s got ties with all of the major, ahem,  _ businesses _ in the city. She usually has a final say in who gets hired, who is let go. But she also has a knack for blacklisting musicians across the country.” 

Mor spits out her words as if they pain her. “I had a friend here, once. Nephelle- a beautiful clarinet player. You may of heard of her- Lucien took her spot.”

I felt as if pieces were slowly falling into place. I wonder if Lucien knew this.

“She found out about some of Amarantha’s unsavory business deals, the way she was spending some of the orchestra funds. Nephelle thought it was wrong, and so she told a small news outlet, a little newspaper company in Boston. Not even in New York.”

Mor’s voice shook as she talked. “She and her wife had a young son, only a few months old. He got sick, suddenly, out of the blue. He was already a premature baby, already small and weak, and so the sickness took hold.”

She breathed deeply, closing her eyes, feeling the loss for herself. I was disturbed, my stomach already falling, guessing the rest of the story.

“After he passed away, Nephelle pulled out of the symphony mid-season. It was so unlike her. But I think she was scared. I’d never seen Nephelle that scared before, but she’d left without saying goodbye. Last I heard she was blacklisted across the country. No symphony will touch her.”

“Did- did Amarantha do that to her son?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure if I wanted the answer.

“I don’t know.” Mor said simply. “I don’t know. But it all happened so suddenly. She turns in the information she has, picks up her son from daycare that afternoon, and he’s dead before the night ends.”

“Did it at least get published?” I pressed. 

“No. The company went out of business not long after.” Mor said, shaking her head. “I know Tamlin is a bastard, one that deserves to rot in hell- but he’s right to be scared.”

I let out a long breath that I hadn’t known I’d been holding- my chest is so tight that I feel like I may burst. I feel like I may be sick, right onto her beautiful countertop.

“Your house is beautiful.” I offer, weakly, trying to change the subject. I’d missed our friendship, longed for it. 

Mor smiles, sliding her long limbs off of the counter to fall onto bare feet. She comes around to grab the rag on my cheek, investigating what lies beneath.

“Well. It’s not  _ all  _ mine.” She says, a little guilt in her voice. I raise an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were involved with someone.” I say, feeling a tad bit hurt. Mor had never mentioned living with someone. She grins broadly.

“Eh, he’s more like my cousin.” Mor says, gently prodding the sore skin at my cheek. I hissed against her touch, and she withdrawls.

“Rhysand is going to go on a rampage when he gets home.” She comments, gesturing towards my sore, stinging cheek; she’s honest but there’s a spark of amusement in her eyes.

“You live with  _ Rhysand?”  _ I exclaimed, jumping out of my chair. I started to reach for my gig bag, still lying at my feet, ready to run off. Maybe I could run to Lucien, tell him that I’d somehow fell on my face this morning and left a hand-shaped mark across it.

Mor just laughed loudly, her voice echoing down the hallways. 

“Is that not okay? Why can I see you, but Rhys can’t?” She mocked me, handing me an ice pack from the freezer. She pointed sternly to the chair. “Sit down, Feyre. Don’t be dumb.”

“I just-” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have a response. I knew Rhysand would take one look at me and his violet eyes would get that look in them, and he’d be chasing down Tamlin, rules be damned. 

I didn’t know how that made me feel, but something burned in me.

“He’s a little possessive, I’ll admit.” Mor rambled, beginning to sift through the giant fridge in front of her. She pulled out a can of pasta sauce, examining the expiration date. 

“How about spaghetti for dinner? Sauce from a can, because I can’t fucking cook.” Mor asked, grinning from ear to ear as she stared me down. I could clearly see that I didn’t exactly have an option in the matter.

“Fine.” I grumbled. 

She began to busy herself with pots and pans, hunting down pasta and various add-ins. For someone who  _ couldn’t fucking cook  _ she looked rather at home rummaging around.

“Yeah, Rhys is the cook in the house. I can’t make much more than pasta, and even then, you may need to chew a bit longer than normal.” Mor shrugged, but I wasn’t paying attention- I couldn’t help but picture Rhysand in the kitchen, cooking with the same fiery intensity that he played piano with, fingers moving as he chopped up ingredients. Standing above the hot stove in the morning, cooking with little more than a black apron on-

Fuck, that wasn’t okay.

“He was pretty worked up when Cassian boasted that you’d been in his bed.” Mor said, all light and airy, as if she were just gossiping, even though she clearly knew what I wanted to hear. The damn woman was an expert at pushing buttons, piquing interests.

“Cassian’s an ass.” I shot back, and Mor cackles.

“That he is. Rhysand believed his teasing, for a bit, that you guys had done more. I’d never seen them fight like that.” Mor commented.

“They fought?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. They’re musicians, not savages.

“Cassian and Azriel teach down at the gym around the block. Cassian does boxing, Azriel judo. Rhysand does a little bit of everything.” She adds, shrugging her shoulders. “Boys are weird.”

“Why?” I ask, bewildered. “That’s so out of the blue.”

“They all met in the foster care system in high school and became buddies real quick. They all went to the same conservatory afterwards- it was their ticket out of all their shitty childhoods. Even though Cassian dropped out to join the army at one point.” Mor snickers, shaking her head. “He changed his mind  _ real  _ quick.”

“When did you come along?” 

“In conservatory.” Mor said shortly, suddenly becoming closed. I wasn’t going to prod her, wasn’t going to open something she clearly wanted close. For now.

“I still can’t picture musicians fighting.” I commented, shaking my head. Even if it did make sense. They were all in perfect shape, all muscled and strong. It just fit so oddly in the narrative of classical musician.

“It’s good to have a hobby.” Mor responded. She shot me a look over her shoulder as she filled a pot with hot water, her eyes curious. “Don’t you have one?”

The question caught me completely off guard.

I had music. I had Tamlin. I went where Tamlin went, usually, did things he liked and thought was fun. After a while, it was less dating and more following him to his concerts, sitting at his side like a polite, quiet trophy. 

I hated myself for it. I didn’t have hobbies, unless Tamlin was considered one.

“I used to paint.” I offered, even though the words sound lame coming out of my mouth.

“Oh, yeah? Why’d you stop?” She presses.

“I stopped when I moved in with Tamlin. I didn’t see a place to continue it, and he didn’t want paints getting everywhere.” It sounded so logical in the moment, perfectly normal, but when I say it out loud to Mor it sounds  _ wrong. _

If she doesn’t agree, she doesn’t say it.

“You should try it some more.” Is all she offers back, though her tone is a bit more strained, darker. 

“Maybe.” I offer back, even though I know it’s a lie. I threw all the supplies away when I moved in with Tam.

“Rhysand has a studio down the hall, if you ever wanted to paint here. I’m sure he’d love it.” She says, and I don’t have to look at her to see the small smile that was on her features, in her voice. “He thinks everything you do is lovely.”

I remember him talking to me in that bar, before we’d danced, talking about my age and my newly won position. He was in awe, inspired.

Not like everyone else, who scoffed and demanded proof, demanded me to prove myself, prove my worth. He, the last possible person who should be in awe of me, was intrigued by me.

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Rhysand, perfect, powerful maestro, thought a weak, hobby-less girl about to crumble under all of the pressure, was lovely. 

I hear the large, heavy front door open and close behind me, the footsteps following it. I can smell him even from here- comforting, pine and citrus. I’m on edge, my breath in my throat and my mind telling me I should run before he confronts me, but I can’t, because all I can feel is relief.

Mor doesn’t say anything, but she turns around from her pot of noodles, turns her whole body to look at us, to study.

“Hello, Feyre darling.” Rhysand says, not hiding the shock in his voice at seeing me, in his apartment nonetheless. He sounds nothing like the tired, broken man I’d seen in rehearsals the past week. 

I move my head, trying to urge my blonde-brown locks to cover my cheek, cover the stinging mark. But Rhysand has a talent of always knowing me, of seeing right through me.

He steps in front of me, a long, slender hand coming to gently move my jaw. Turning my face.

I see his eyes darken, his face drop, pure fury reflected in his eyes. He’s so heartbreakingly beautiful, carved out of stone, and I want to change that look on his face immediately. I want him to smile at me again, to call me darling, to act like we are nothing more than flirtatious co-workers, pretend like we don’t long to be more.

“What happened?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhysand grow closer as she stays over- a little too close for comfort. Mor delievers tough news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fluffy fluffy fluffy. And also holds enough sexual tension to kill a man. That man may be Rhysand.
> 
> Also- I hope the relationship between Rhys/Feyre isn’t too sudden. It’s already been about three months in the fic, and it was a lot shorter time in ACOMAF. I’m also leaving out a lot of smaller scenes that don’t necesaarily add to the plot, like the quintet interacting/hanging out. I have a lot of material like that saved to the side and I may release it as drabbles later! 
> 
>  
> 
> Song for this chapter is ‘Ocean’ by It Looks Sad.

Rhysand was very quiet.

He didn’t talk as he stood in front of me, his fingers working on my face, as I sat on his bathroom countertop. He wouldn’t look in my eyes, either, so focused on the task at hand that he looked detached from the situation, apathetic. I’d seen him in these moods before, in a few intense, difficult rehearsals, where he would put on a stony mask and become hellbent on accomplishing a goal, whatever the cost.

But then he’d ran a hand over my cheek, still slick from the ointment he’d rubbed on, his strong, soft, pianist hands making a chill come up my spine. It wasn’t from the cold.

“That should help. It’s an ointment Cassian and I use after the gym. If we leave bruises.” Rhysand says simply, and he no longer looks detached- rather the opposite.

I nod, squirming uncomfortably on the counter. It’s a gorgeous bathroom, one of the biggest ones I’d seen in any New York apartments- swathed in shades of gray, stainless steel, and a gigantic porcelain bathtub that was more of a pool. 

But it felt  _ weird _ \- far too intimate with him a few inches away from me, in his own personal bathroom. I didn’t like how it made me feel.

“Feyre.” Rhysand echoed, seeing my restlessness. 

“I’m good.” I responded, although I wasn’t sure what would count as ‘good’ anymore.

“No, you’re not.” He says quickly, and something dark flashes over his face. Not at me. “He did this to you, and that’s not fucking okay. I mean, Feyre…”

Rhysand trails off, and I feel like I’m watching something I shouldn’t- I’d never seen him so open, so vulnerable. He had a hand running through his dark, thick hair, staring out the window next to the bath, frustrated and upset. The sunset filters through the windows, catching all of his sharp edges. He’s breathtaking.

“Why?” He said suddenly, his attention back on me- his violet eyes bore into me, and I can’t quite meet them. 

“He’s just upset. He’s going through a lot right now.” I told him firmly. 

“Not only is that a shitty excuse on his part-” Rhysand shot back. “-but it’s also not true.”

“It’s not your job to look after me.” I said, gritting my teeth despite my efforts to stay calm. 

Rhysand took a step closer to me, and for a split second, I thought I’d said something again, thought I was with Tamlin and was going to get scolded, get hit, maybe. I flinched.

But Rhysand did something Tamlin could never do in that situation- he placed his hands on either side of my body, still perched on his counter, and stared me down. Calm, collected. 

“Not everyone is like Tamlin, Feyre.” He said, his breath tickling my nose. “I’m not trying to look after you, to coddle you. I know you can take care of this yourself.”

I didn’t believe him, but I felt strong in the way that he believed in me.

“I just want to make sure you don’t lose yourself in the process.” 

 

\----------------

Mor barely noticed our absence- or if she did, she didn’t comment on it. 

Dinner wasn’t near as bad as she had braced me for. I was expecting something on the level of my oldest sister’s cooking- after my father died, she’d taken up the responsibility, but we all quickly found out that we’d rather go hungry.

I worried it may be awkward with me there, too, but it seemed completely normal. Mor chatted about a new juice bar she’d found, near the gym Cassian and Azriel taught at. Rhysand didn’t talk much, but Mor seemed fine with that. She filled most of the silence, and I tried my best to pitch in as well, even though I could feel their gaze linger on the side of my face.

“I’ll take care of the dishes, Mor.” Rhysand said after the end of the meal, pushing back his chair to retreat into the kitchen.

I figured I may as well pitch in some, too.

“Do you own a dishwasher?” I asked Rhysand, timidly. I still felt as if there were something in the air between us, delicate and worrisome, after we’d been in his bathroom.

He shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “No, we do it old fashioned around here.”

“Wow. I figured the maestro of the New York Symphony would have his own kitchen staff, let alone a dishwasher.” I said, going to grab a dry towel near the sink.

“I sent them away after I knew you’d be gracing us with your presence. Makes me more down to Earth.” Rhysand shot back. He had his long sweater pushed up to the elbow, baring strong arms, muscles rippling as he scrubbed at a few plates. It shouldn’t have been that attractive, but it was. God, it was.

“Do you like arms, Feyre?” He asked, teasingly, not looking up from his sink. My cheeks burned red.

_ I sure as hell like yours. _

“I was wondering why all maestros had such tiny arms, for all the frantic waving they do.” 

Rhysand barked out a laugh, my comment catching him off guard. He did look at me that time, a cheeky grin on his face, black hair falling across his forehead. For once, not a picture of composure, like I’d normally seen on the stage.

“I assure you, none of me is tiny.” He said, his voice rougher than before. 

I covered my blush with a scoff. “Yeah, I know how just how gigantic your ego is.”

“Funny you use that word, because it can also be used to describe my-”

“Feyre, I have you set up down the hall.” Mor interrupted- Rhysand and I both looked over our shoulders to see her leaning against the broad doorway to the kitchen, a restrained, amused grin on her face. She’d obviously been there for a while, watching our exchange.

“Oh, thank you.” I made sure to reply. Mor was looking at Rhysand like they were sharing a private conversation, one he desperately wanted out of.

“It’s across from the studio, and conveniently beside Rhysand’s room.” Mor said innocently, a sharkish grin on her face. Before either of us could comment, she was off in a flurry of heel clicks. 

“She did that because it’s the best guest room.” Rhysand said- and I was surprised. Mor seemed to have caught him off guard, and was that  _ embarrassment  _ I caught in his voice? I couldn’t imagine the cocky, confident maestro being embarrassed, ever. 

“Well, I’m flattered.” I responded. 

 

\--------------------

 

I couldn’t sleep that night.

As soon as I’d been alone, without Rhysand or Mor, it had all hit me at once. My fights with Tamlin, his sudden escalation with his temper, the way he’d laid hands on me. It felt like it was someone else’s life, someone else’s problem. With Rhys and Mor acting like a buffer to it all, I’d completely forgotten, save for the occasional throb of my cheek.

But laying in those silk sheets, feeling impossibly small in that big room, I couldn’t turn my brain off. I wasn’t sure what  _ to  _ do. I loved Tamlin, or at least I had at one point. All I felt anymore was anxiety, and a small, tiny bit of fear. 

But leaving him, his protection, his guiding hand- I’d be alone again. As much as I craved being my own person and living my own life, I was terrified. I was terrified that even if I left him, there would still be that hole inside of me, still be that darkness following me.

I gave up after a few hours of tossing and turning.

I slipped on a large t-shirt, trying to ignore the fact that it was Tamlin’s, a t-shirt he’d gotten as an instructor at a nearby performing arts camp. It even smelled like him.

I closed my door as quiet as possible, looking at Rhysand’s door, a few feet away from mine- it was shut completely. I’d heard him earlier, preparing for bed; I’d heard the shower turn on, and the idea that he was in there, just a room away, made a burning ache replace the fear in my stomach. 

It was bad. 

“You’re up late.”

I slammed my hand into the wall on instinct, a loud  _ smack  _ ringing through the empty, still hallways. 

Rhysand laughed loudly, following my own disruption of silence with his own. 

I scowled, feeling my face heat up.  _ Prick. _

“I didn’t know we were giving pet names, now.” Rhysand purred. I must’ve said it out loud.

I had to blink against the darkness to even see him, and I wish I hadn’t. He was just as ready for bed as I was, dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxers. Thank God for darkness, because with how curious I’d been lately, I probably would’ve looked him over, like some horny teenage girl.

We were  _ adults _ , damnit. I wasn’t about to be undone by a tiny bit of lust.

But his eyes were already skimming over my bare legs, lingering; I didn’t blend into the dark as well as he did, with my freakishly pale legs and light hair. He drank in my appearance. Good, the bastard deserved to be caught off guard.

“Surely your symphony salary could afford you a pair of pants, now.” Rhysand teased. Apparently, not  _ too  _ off guard. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Surely yours could buy you a goddamn shirt.” I shot back. Not that I’d looked. Definitely not, never. Nope.

“Ah, but then you wouldn’t stare at me dreamily. Oh, wait, you do that anyways.” 

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan.”

We stared at each other in that dim hallway, me scowling, him grinning from ear to ear. I moved to go past him- but he held out a hand.

“Wait.” He said simply, hurrying to his bedroom.

For a second, I thought he meant for me to follow. I hated that I considered.

But a moment later he appeared, a pair of loose sweatpants on, tugging a shirt over his head. His head poked through, looking at me expectantly.

He beckoned with his fingertips as he ducked inside the studio, across the hall from both of our rooms. I was a bit curious, and I didn’t have much else to do at two a.m., so I followed.

As soon as he flicked a small lamp on, the room came to life in front of me. It was a beautiful space, luxurious but not quite as grand as the rest of the apartment. There was a gigantic collection of vinyl records stretching across the wall, slowly transitioning into musical scores. 

In one corner was a beautiful, mahogany desk, its surface scattered with scores. Across from it stood a few music stands- I spotted Mor’s oboe, the light catching the rosy grenadilla wood. 

And, of course, in the middle of it all sat a shining grand piano.

I couldn’t help but migrate to it, running my fingers along the surface. No dust, no marks- perfectly, meticulously kept up. It was breathtaking.

“My girl.” Rhysand said, patting the piano fondly. “She’s been through many years with me.”

I noticed another piano, a baby grand, situated in the corner of the room. It was covered with black velvet, pushed aside. 

“What about that one?” I asked. His features darkened considerably.

“I don’t play that one.” Rhysand said, going back to staring at his grand, fingertips ghosting over the lid as if it were keys.

“Why not?” I prodded. 

“You ask so many questions, Feyre, yet avoid all of mine.” Rhysand said, playfully, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half-smile. The light makes everything glow, golden, and he’s no exception- he looks like he’s been carved out of wood himself. I long to paint him. I long to  _ paint. _

“It was a gift from the symphony board.” Rhysand answers after my silence, looking away from me. 

“Expensive gift.” I comment.

“They have no shortage of expensive gifts.” He says flatly, bitterly. 

“Well, send them my way next time.” I said, trying to lighten the mood; he catches my change in mood and follows eagerly.

He moves across the room, to the desk- he’s so odd, in casual clothes. I’m so used to seeing him dressed in the finest blacks, suits and tuxedos tailored to his tall, muscular form. I’m used to his black shirts, his perfectly pressed slacks, and it’s stupid but he seems  _ more  _ attractive like this. Normal, vulnerable.

I can almost forget the fact that he’s one of the most powerful, influential men in the classical musical world.

“ _ Pini di Roma,”  _ He says, his Italian perfectly falling off his tongue. 

“Pines of Rome.” I echo, my interest piqued; such a grand, elaborate piece- but why?

He sat his in his chair, his elbows on the desk in front of him, mulling over a thick score. I slipped onto the desk beside him, half facing the desk, half facing him. The wood is cool against my bare skin, scores underneath my fingertips.

“Future concert.” He explains, still engrossed in the pages in front of him. 

“Which one?” I look over him, seeing the beautiful scrawls of notes in the parts, telling him who he needs to cue, who needs to be brought out. A meticulous job, for sure.

“I’m thinking maybe the beginning of the next season, to kick it all off. It’s a showstopper, for sure.” Rhysand replies, and he breaks his concentration to look up at me, still perched on his desk. I realize how close we are, and suddenly it feels too domestic, too intense. Something burns, twists inside of me.

He flips a page, in the fourth movement, and I see a messy note that definitely isn’t Rhysand’s- it’s above the horn part, the soaring, glorious line near the end.  _ Bells up, bitches! _

“That’s Cassian’s addition to my work.” Rhysand says dryly, and I can’t help but laugh.

“He come in here a lot? To sabotage your work?” I ask, picturing Cassian, sifting through all the scores, writing little comments where he pleased.

His eyes are sparkling with something I can’t put my finger on when he responds.

“No. I don’t let anyone in here, save for Mor. She stores her music items in here.” He tells me, and he looks at me with that weird look again, like he knows exactly the way my stomach drops when he says that. Like he knows he makes me feel special, and he’s damn proud of it.

“Well, I’ll consider myself lucky.” I rolled my eyes, trying to play it off, even if my heartbeat felt out of control, beating to its own rhythm. I think of Tamlin, and I sober up immediately.

I wonder what he was doing- if he had any idea that I was sitting, half-naked, on Rhysand’s desk as he pondered over music scores with me. Saying it to myself sent a bolt of heat through me, and it wasn’t all shame.

Rhysand flipped back to the second movement, and I reached out, catching his hand to stop him.

“Wait, go back a page.” I insisted. He paused a moment, not looking at me. I didn’t miss the way he had stiffened with I touched him, didn’t miss the way his skin against mine sent a spike of heat through me.

He obeyed after a moment, flipping back the page. It was the second movement to the Pines of Rome, the beginning of the flute solo, echoed by the bassoon. The beginning of the flute solo was circled, his sophisticated shorthand spelling only one word above the part:  _ Feyre.  _

__ Rhysand was looking at me again, as I read over the note, my hand still on his wrist. I was scared to meet his gaze, because I could already feel it burning through me, feel the heat igniting in my chest.

My name. It was short and simple, but there was something so personal about it, touching. His only interest in that part was in the idea that I’d be playing it.

“Forget your first flute’s name again?” I teased him, trying to lighten the room, desperately. I felt like a big contradiction, a confusing mess of signals. I needed  us to go back to the way it was before- joking, teasing, impersonal. Tamlin needed it.

“I couldn’t do that.” Rhysand said, and his wrist slipped easily from under my grip, gone limp. His fingers grazed my leg, the bare thigh where the t-shirt had ridden up. It’s so light, just a teasing brush of calloused fingertips.

It has me on fire in an instant, positively aching from every part of me. 

“Rhysand-” I started to say, to plead him to stop and continue. A red and a green light. 

But his eyes have me frozen, his features caught once again in the golden light, his gaze wrought with desire and concern and so many other emotions that I can’t name, can’t begin to explain.

With his fingertips on my thighs once again, it’s almost like we’re dancing at the bar still, celebrating my first concert. We’re doing another type of dance now, slow and stealthy and risky.

Rhysand braces his hands on either side of me, trapping me in with those strong arms I’d lusted after earlier, in front of me in an instant. I’m sitting on his scores, perched atop his beautiful desk, and he’s about to kiss me here. 

He’s not breathing as he leans in, and neither am I. One of his hands hooks around my waist, palm splaying across my back, and it feels so right I want to sob. I just want to be touched, to be loved by this frustrating, beautiful man.

Our foreheads touch, and he’s looking at me, and I may break apart.

“I can’t do this.” I whisper, our noses grazing one another. I feel hot, sticky tears running down my face, beginning to drip down my collar, slide down my neck. It’s like a weathered, worn dam has finally broke. 

“Feyre,” He breathes out, like my word is a prayer on his lips, and one of his hands comes up to try and cradle my face, wipe the tears. But I’m already pushing him away, already on my feet.

I’m already retreating, retreating like I always do. The only thing I know  _ how  _ to do.

He was going to kiss me. And I was going to let him.

\-----------------

 

I don’t see Rhysand the next morning.

I wake up a few minutes after nine, my eyes scratchy from crying last night. I hate crying- I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really done it, let it all go. It must’ve been when dad had finally died.

I want to stay wrapped up in the silk sheets, to close my eyes and never open them, but I push against that instinct. I had a lot to figure out.

But it’s only Mor in the living room, curled up on the couch with a mug of steaming coffee. She’s watching a television show, a home remodel.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Mor shoots at me while I try to secure my own cup of coffee, rummaging through the kitchen. It feels so natural, walking through their house like it’s my own, that I can almost pretend like everything is normal. Like Tamlin hadn’t lashed out at me, like Rhysand hadn’t tried to kiss me, like I hadn’t ran from both.

“Rhysand went out and got muffins for us.” Mor informed me, crumbling up her own muffin liner in her hand. That’s what I was smelling- blueberry and chocolate. My stomach grumbles.

“Is he here?” I asked tentatively. 

“Nope, he went in to work early. Prepare for today’s rehearsal, I guess.” She shrugged. It made sense- after another weekly concert last Friday and Saturday, we’d be starting on this week’s rep today. 

The thought of going back to symphony, seeing Tamlin and Lucien, had my stomach in knots. I wasn’t near as hungry as I thought.

I still picked at a muffin, at Mor’s insistence, folding my legs underneath me on the couch. 

“Do you have a dress for the Symphony Gala?” Mor inquired as her show went to commercial, tilting her head in the endearing way she always did, like she truly cared about every comment someone made. She was such a wholesome person.

But the Symphony Gala- I wasn’t near ready for it. It was coming up next weekend, and I’d already been told horror stories by Lucien. It was one of the classiest, most expensive evenings offered in the city of New York, but it was full of all the  _ wrong  _ people. The highest businessmen, the most powerful politicians, all of the symphony board, and enough news outlets to make you pass out. I was hoping to skip out, until the quintet had been invited to play.

And  _ fuck _ \- Lucien. I’d forgotten to text him last night, before I went to bed. I’m sure he’d already texted me, already tried to call, probably having heard it all from Tam. I’d been stupid in immediately turning off my phone once Tamlin’s frenzied texts began.

“I have a gown.” I told her, not keeping the grimace from my face.

“Do you  _ like  _ it, though?” Mor said, laughing at my expression.

“It’s alright, I guess.” I said, more to appease her than anything. It was a plain gown, black and straight as a board. At least the figure matched my own.

“Oh,  _ Feyre darling.”  _ Mor mimicked Rhysand, and I couldn’t help but smile, even as the thought of Rhysand made my chest constrict. I pictured him again, standing over me as I sat on his desk, one hand leaving fire in its wake on my thigh, biting his lip, his eyes-

“But honestly, you should find something you actually love. Every girl deserves to feel absolutely gorgeous.” Mor broke me out of my not-so-pure thoughts, tossing a lock of golden hair behind her. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I grumbled, even though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt ‘gorgeous’, as she put it. I dressed nice enough, keeping up my image; but in New York weather, it usually ended up being an array of boots and heels, fitted, dark jeans, and various sweaters and coats. It wasn’t my fault it was so damn cold.

“I have quite a few you could look at.” She offered, grinning.

“I’ll also keep that in mind.” I said, trying to escape the subject. She just laughed.

“Oh, you’re not getting out that easy. You  _ are  _ going to look at them with me sometime this week, mark my words.” 

“Fine.” I groaned through a mouthful of muffin. I felt like Morrigan would’ve gotten along with Elain, the middle sister in my family, if they ever met. She was equally as invested in clothes and makeup, equally sweet and comforting. 

But it was so, so nice to have a friend that wasn’t male. For once, I felt  _ normal. _

“There’s something else I was going to talk to you about.” Mor said, and this time her tone was quieter, more restrained and mature. She even turned off the television, pulling her legs out from under her and instead sitting straight up in her chair.

“Okay.” I prompted, a little uneasy by her body language.

“I know you had mentioned sisters before, ones that lived in London still.” Mor said, watching my expression with a watchful eye.

“Yes, Nesta and Elain.” I responded. Surely it couldn’t be bad news about them- how would Mor have heard before I did?

“And one was a ballerina, right?” She asked.

“Yes, Nesta. Ever since she was five.” I respond. Nesta had began ballet when I’d began flute, both of us latching on to the ideas and wearing them as our identities. In that way we complimented each other- though the compliments ended there.

“Well…” Mor wrung her hands. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, as it seems a little personal, but I didn’t want you to find out the day of, either, and be mad that I didn’t tell you.”

“Okay, you can tell me now, then, and not have to feel bad?” I offered, a lame attempt at a bit of humor. She still looked uncomfortable.

“And you know the upcoming partnership we have with the New York Ballet Society, right?” 

I nodded. It was coming up, our first performance with them next month. I’d planned on maybe even sending a few pictures back to Nesta in London, even though I hadn’t talked to either sister in months.

“Nesta’s name is on the roster for the Ballet Society.” Mor said quietly, breaking the news to me. I didn’t understand at first- I was irritated, annoyed that Nesta didn’t share with me such a huge achievement. 

And then it hit me- to be a part of the society, she had to of been living in New York, in the city limits.

My sisters had moved to New York without even telling me.

I had always assumed how little we talked was due to distance- I used to get calls from Elain once a week, then once a month, and then not at all. Nesta, only a few times for a month after I left. I hadn’t talked to either in months.

But the thought that they were in New York, that they’d moved here without even telling me, said a lot more than that. They didn’t want me in their lives anymore.

And so, under Mor’s quiet support, I turned my phone back on, already dialing in a number I hadn’t touched in almost half a year.

I remembered Rhysand’s words yesterday, in his bathroom.  _ I just don’t want you to lose yourself in the process.  _

And I wasn’t going to, I decided. I wasn’t going to let my problems, my struggles dictate everything in my life, right down to my own blood.

I wasn’t running away from this one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Nesta have a shaky reunion, Rhysand struggles with his secretive symphony affairs, and Feyre makes a big, final decision, with Mor’s unwavering encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is Only the Young Die Good by saintseneca / Boyish by Hippo Campus. Couldn’t quite decide! 
> 
> Nesta is such a hard character to capture- and, because of that, this definitely isn’t her last appearance in this fic :)

I met Nesta at a coffee shop the next day.

It had only been a year since I’d last seen her, one that had seemed to go by in a blink of an eye. But she looked so different now, like a whole other person.

She was still icily beautiful, with sharp features and the same variation on freezing blue eyes that I had. Her hair was tucked into an elegant bun, the golden pieces framing the frown on her face. It only made her stand out more- highlighted her severe, slim dancer’s body, her fitted navy pea coat and strong legs.

If she wasn’t always so angry and bitter, she’d have guys lining up and down the block. 

Her face barely changed expression when she saw me through the window of the coffee shop, save for the slight widening of her eyes. 

I’d seen better days.

I traded the chill outside for the one Nesta was so thoughtfully producing herself.

“You look like hell.” She said, crystal-colored eyes raking over me. She pursed her perfect, plump lips. She was always so much better at makeup than me, always looking like she’d stepped out of a magazine every time she left the house.

But she was right- it’d taken a lot to get me out of Rhys and Mor’s townhouse this morning. I hadn’t left in days, taking a few days off of rehearsals, and I felt it. I’d left with a face free of makeup, tossing my hair into a flimsy braid, and slipped on a pair of dark jeans and a thick coat. 

At least the bruise was nearly gone.

“It’s been a hard couple of months.” I said, hoping I wasn’t too vulnerable in front of her.

She sipped at her cider, pinning me with a hard look. “Why?”

“Do you really want to know, or just want to know how it affects you and Elain?” I shot back. Nesta narrowed her eyes, back to that predatory glare.

“You were the one who stopped talking to us.” Nesta said cooly. “So I wanted to know why that was. Doesn’t Elain deserve an excuse?”

Of course.  _ Elain  _ was the one who cared that I disappeared.

But I saw something flickering in Nesta’s eyes, something almost hidden underneath the dark glare she gave me. She was hurt.

“I  _ did  _ try to contact you two.” I blurted, shaking my head. This didn’t make sense, didn’t add up. 

“Bullshit.” Nesta said simply. “Elain said you just stopped one day.”

“No, I said the international calls were too expensive on  _ both  _ of us, so I’d write instead.” I said, defensively. I’d tried, damnit. I tried with all of my being, not to let them slip away.

I wrote and wrote and wrote, pages for each letter, trying to keep that connection alive across an ocean. I’d done it every other day for two months, then slowly a week, then a month- all after I’d gotten no reply, no peep. 

“We never got letters, Feyre.” Nesta said, and her voice has changed- it’s no longer harsh, instead just confused, hurt. She knows I’m telling the truth.

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I wrote so damn much- probably enough to fill a book. I’d wrote about every stupid thing I did, every date with Tamlin, every outing with Lucien. I’d tried, but somehow it hadn’t reached them. And they thought it was  _ my  _ fault.

“I wrote, so, so much.” I babbled, feeling my stomach drop. “I wrote every other morning, and then I’d give the letters to Tam to put in the mail-”

Oh. 

It all made sense now.

“He didn’t deliver them, did he?” Nesta asked, tilting her head as she looked at me, studied my response.

It all made sense. 

All his little comments, his weird mannerisms when I talked about my sisters. The way he’d be almost angry when I was on the phone too long, or when I’d wake up in the early morning hours to call them. When I’d ask for more writing material, when I’d talk about bringing them over.

The way he’d say that we were  _ too  _ close, that they were holding me back. That he could take care of me now, not them. They were across the ocean, and I shouldn’t be sending money back to them.

I’m on fire, I’m so angry. I didn’t remember ever feeling pure fury towards Tamlin, the man I loved, but everything is new these days.

“I’m sorry.” I told Nesta, roughly. “He’s changed. Or maybe he’s always been this way, and I’ve been too blind to see it.”

“Has he hurt you?” Nesta said, quietly. Her face is very still, and her fingers have stopped tapping on her mug.

“It’s over between us.” I say, and I can feel the truth behind my words. With this last final shred of information, the way he broke apart my family- I had the strength to make the decision I didn’t want to. 

Nesta looks at me in that way that tells me she clearly knows the way I skirted her question. 

To my relief, she doesn’t question it. Not today.

“Did the payments go through every month, at least?” I’d sent them checks each month, a good chunk of my paycheck. It had made things tough on me, before Tamlin, but they’d needed it badly after dad died.

Nesta nods, stiffly. She hates relying on someone, hates needing help. 

“Yes. It’s-” She stops a moment, as if the words hurt her. “It’s how we got here.”

“Good,” I breathe out. They’d saved it, used it wisely. 

“I auditioned for the ballet, and got in.” She says the words lightly,  tracing her cup, as if it’s nothing. Even I can see the bit of pride she has underneath it, and it almost makes me smile. I’m happy for her- no,  _ elated  _ for her. She deserved it.

“I knew you could. You were always a fantastic ballerina.” I said, meaning every bit of what I say. We look at each other, and she nods, dipping her head.

“Thank you.” Nesta says, and the words sound so foreign on her tongue. We’re still learning, without mom and dad, and now newly acquainted across the sea. Trying to learn how to be normal with one another, how to show love when it’s difficult for both of us.

“What about Elain?” I press.

“She’s got an interview with a florist next Wednesday.” Nesta says- Elain would be wonderful for the job. She went to college for a botany degree, but it was mainly out of pressure from our father. She never wanted to succeed quite as much as Nesta and I did, and I was envious of her- soft and beautiful, able to enjoy the world in its simplest forms.

“You should come see her sometime this week.” Nesta adds, and the thought makes my chest burn with happiness, and I want to cry. I’d thought I’d lost them, that they’d given up on me.

“Of course. I’d love to.”

 

\-------------------

 

“Am I allowed to ask how it went?” 

Mor’s sitting near the door when I get back, another cup of steaming coffee in her hands. She’s got an addiction, I swear- she’s either drinking coffee or alcohol, nothing else. 

But now she’s practically shaking like a puppy, her leg jogging beneath her, biting her lip. 

“Yes.” I laugh, setting my bag onto the dining room table. “It went good. But, I did find something out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mor inquired, tilting her head to the side, golden hair following suite.

“And I made a decision.” That perks her up, the way I firmly speak the word.  _ Decision. _

“ _ The  _ decision?” She presses. 

“I started writing to them, Mor, after the calls got too expensive. I wrote to them every single, damn day.” I shook my head, barely believing the words myself. I wonder if Tamlin felt any guilt, any shred of guilt in that dark soul of his. “Tamlin took them, saying he’d deliver them.”

Her face drops, and I don’t even have to finish. “God, that’s messed up.”

“And that’s the final straw.” I announced. 

“Good.” Mor says firmly, and there’s a tight, triumphant grin on her face. She jumps to her feet, her quiet steps making little noises as she runs into the kitchen.

She emerges from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of champagne that’s probably more expensive than my whole wardrobe. Maybe even my flute.

“To celebrate, of course.” Mor says, innocently.

I can’t help but giggle. “Mor, it’s eleven in the morning.”

“Yeah, and you just made such a smart, difficult decision that I can’t  _ not  _ celebrate.” Mor scoffs. “Please, don’t let me drink this whole bottle by myself.”

“You’re right, I’ve got to look out for my friends.” I shoot back.

She laughs, the sound mingling with the two glass flutes that she pushes in front of us. After making a bit show of pouring the sparkling liquid in, she slides one to me.

“Fuck Tamlin.” Mor toasts, clinking our glasses together. I snort out a laugh.

“Fuck Tamlin.” I repeat.

\------------

 

I didn’t get my stuff from Tamlin’s apartment the same day I saw Nesta, the same day I made my decision.

I was exhausted from just the simple meeting I’d had with my sister; in the past week, I’d barely left the apartment. Mor had told me that Ianthe was filling in for me on this week’s concert, and even though I hated the thought of her gloating, gorgeous grin, I was fine with it. 

I wasn’t ready to see Tamlin yet, definitely not at rehearsal.

So I sat around Rhysand’s apartment, not sure what to do with myself. I thought I’d be fine after leaving Tamlin’s, and then even better about making the decision- but I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay, not in the least bit.

I had nightmares. I didn’t understand most of them, didn’t think I even had a reason to have them. But it near nightly now- Tamlin chasing me, him hitting me again, me trapped in our bedroom, slowly running out of air. 

And the anxiety. I thought I’d had it bad before, as a musician, but it was nothing compared to now. I’d get random attacks throughout the day, but it was luckily when I was alone, when Rhys and Mor were at rehearsals or work. Last time it had been in the bathtub- the sudden onslaught of terror, something I couldn’t place. I’d thought I was about to die, in that bathtub, with the way my heart was flying, the way I was convinced everything in my life was  _ wrong _ . I’d almost forgotten where I was,  _ who  _ I was.

I’d ended up naked on the bathroom floor, pressing my face into the cold tile, reminding myself who I was, what I did.

I didn’t tell Mor about it.

I didn’t tell Rhysand, either. He was never at the house, to begin with. He left early in the morning, before Mor or I did, and always came back after we went to bed. Some nights I wasn’t sure if he even  _ did  _ come home. The only indication was the meals he’d make for us, sometimes.

Mor would always shake her head at it. 

“He’s working himself to death.” She’d sigh.

“What is he doing?” I’d ask. I remembered how he used to be- fun, teasing, seductive. Poking at me, making me fight back. Pushing me forward. I missed him.

“All he can.” She’d say simply, a dark look on her features.

One night, I stayed up later than I was used to.

And the door had quietly opened a little past one in the morning, closing softly behind the tall figure that stood in front of him.

I opened my mouth, ready to make a remark, trying to catch him off guard. But Rhysand was rarely ever caught off guard.

“Well look at you. You’ve finally found pants.” He said, gesturing to the flannel bottoms I’d borrowed from Mor a few days ago. The reference to that time in his study, almost a week ago, has me blushing, grateful for the dark room. 

I hadn’t talked to him in almost a week, hadn’t even seen him. 

“I had to give you a break, or else you’d probably go mad.” I shot back.

“How intuitive, Feyre darling.” Rhysand purrs back, but his tone has lost its usual sting. He’s exhausted, and I don’t need the lights on to see it. 

“Why are you getting back so late?” I ask, done with our banter. I needed answers- I was so, so  _ sick  _ of being left in the dark my whole life.

“I have business.” He says simply. His demeanor has changed- I can see his body tense in the moonlight, muscles moving, like a panther ready to run. 

“No good business is dealt this late at night, Rhys.” I tell him.

“Correct.” He says, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight, streaming in from the large windows. 

“Symphony business?” 

“ _ None of your  _ business.” He’s back to joking, deflecting.

“Rhysand.” I say firmly, sitting up straight in my seat at the dining room table, shooting him a look he probably can’t decipher in the dim room. “You’re not being yourself.”

“I can’t, not around them.” Rhysand shoots back, and the words take me aback. He’d never been this vulnerable, this open to me before. We’re getting into uncharted, new territory, and I’m tiptoeing, but I want to run. I want to know all of it, want to  _ fix  _ it.

“The board?” I ask, quietly. I see his head nod, his shoulders drop a little, releasing tension. I pat the chair beside me, softly. “Come sit down, Rhys.”

And to my surprise, he does. He drops his briefcase on the table, quietly as not to disturb Mor’s slumber, and slinks into the chair, quiet and graceful. 

The moonlight takes ahold of him, and I see him for the first time in almost a week. It’s stupid, it’s pathetic, but my heart stops. I’d missed him so much, even though I had no right to. 

He’s in nicer attire than normal, not concert black, exactly, but an expensive pair of slacks and a dark jacket. His hair is slicked back, and it only highlights his strong jaw, his violet eyes, his dark lashes. He has bags under his eyes, but he’s still breathtaking.

Rhysand blends into the darkness, into the moonlight, like he’s just a part of the night itself. I want to paint him,  _ need  _ to paint him, so badly that it’s an ache in my chest.

“Take a picture, darling. It’ll last you longer.” Rhysand throws the words at me with a slight grin, but I can see the way he’s struggling. He looks like he may fall asleep here, at the table.

“Whatever you’re going through.” I say, quietly, and he meets my eyes, almost stealing the breath from my lungs. Almost. “Don’t lose yourself in the process.”

He closes his eyes, weighing the words I stole from him. 

“Never.” Rhysand says simply, his eyes still closed. “They won’t take that from me.”

I want to ask, want to know  _ what  _ they’ve already taken from him. I remembered Nephelle, her baby boy, the idea that there was probably  _ more  _ than just that, probably a list of other casualties, literally and metaphorically, at the hands of this ruthless board. 

“I’ll tell you all about it. Just not tonight, darling.” He says softly; his eyes have opened again, and he’s looking at me in that haze between sleep and consciousness, so many different emotions swirling in his expression. His face is soft with fondness.

“I’ll hold you to it.” I say, jokingly, even though I’m serious as anything. Rhysand has moved, resting his tired head on folded arms, on the rich wood of the table in beside us. 

I can’t fight the urge to touch him, to comfort; and so I do. The moment my hand touches his soft, raven-colored hair, he all but goes limp. Relaxed.

“Your hands are just sinful, Feyre.” He scoffs, leaning his head into my touch as I skim my fingers through his hair. He’s all but purring like a cat, and I can’t help but grin. 

“I had no idea it was this easy to get the powerful maestro to his knees.” I teased, tugging softly at a stray strand.

“Oh, Feyre darling. I would be on my knees for you at the simple command.” He purrs, and I scoff at him, the prick. Exhausted, mentally taxed, and still a shameless, disgusting flirt.

He’s falling asleep quickly, so relaxed and boneless under my fingers threading through his hair. I’d never thought I’d use the word adorable towards the strong, ruthless leader of  the New York Symphony- but there’s something hilariously cute in the way he leans into the touch, the way he’s almost asleep at the way I play with his hair. Like a little child.

I wonder if his mother used to do that to him, maybe when he was young. Before she was murdered, by Tamlin’s grandfather.

The thought sobers me in an instant, wipes the grin from my face, the laugh from my throat. With Rhysand here again, I’d forgotten the situation, forgotten Tamlin, forgotten the past. 

But Rhysand must’ve been asleep- he didn’t move when my fingers paused, tensed at the sudden intrusive thought. I think he was finally asleep, finally under. He needed it, desperately, and I’d play with his hair every damn night if he looked this peaceful and happy.

“I miss you.” I whispered quietly, meaning every vulnerable, scary word.

 

\------------

 

I woke up to cold, expensive wood beneath my cheek.

I shot up in an instant, panic running through me. It reminded me of Tamlin’s coffee table, in our apartment, and I felt the overwhelming need to  _ run,  _ to escape before I was locked up again-

But I was in Rhysand’s apartment, having fallen asleep at the dining room table.

I calmed down in an instant, remembering the previous night. It was okay, I was okay. I was more than okay.

With the sunlight filtering into the dining room, Rhysand was far gone. His chair was tucked into the table beside me, and all that was left was a tiny note tucked into my still-outstretched, curled hand.

_ I’ll be home early tonight  _ was all it read.

But the words put a smile on my face, put a little fire in me that I couldn’t dampen. 

Mor woke up a few hours later, complaining about the sunlight that pierced through the tall, ceiling-height windows that flanked the living room. She was still in a fluffy robe, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

And then she did a double take of me, blinking.

“You’re up early.” Was all she said, amazed, trying not to jinx it. Like I was a wild animal, about to run if she made the wrong move.

But I could understand her being caught off guard- I had two mugs of steaming coffee in my hand, the dining room table set for two. I’d even gotten a little flower to put in the middle of it all.

And I had Rhysand’s black apron on, though it was a little too large. I’d had to wrap the strings around my waist twice, but it had stayed well enough while I cooked eggs and toast. 

“I can cook  _ some  _ things.” I said defensively as Mor stared.

“No, I’m just-” She shook her head, a lazy grin creeping on her face. “Wow. Smells delicious, actually.”

We dug into the breakfast food, and I was pleasantly surprised, myself- it did taste pretty good. I’d always had Tamlin to cook for me, to provide for my every need. The fact that I’d done this myself made it taste even better.

“Rhysand is coming home early tonight.” I told her, unable to keep the words to myself. They were a little rushed and unsteady even as I spoke them.

Mor smirked. “So that’s why you’re all peppy?”

“What? No.” I said defensively.

“Not that I’m complaining at all. It makes me beyond fucking happy to see you pulling yourself out of this funk Tamlin threw on you.” Mor shakes her head, disgust on her face at the mention of his name. I try to ignore the way my stomach twists painfully.

“I’m all  _ peppy _ , as you put it, because I’m getting stuff done today.” I announced. “Would you mind helping me move my stuff out of Tamlin’s apartment?”

“Of course.” She said quickly, firmly. Like she’d been waiting all week to hear those words.

“It’s a Friday, so he’s probably going to be at rehearsal most of the day. And once it’s done, I’ll need to send a few texts.” I told her, trying to keep up my strong front. Trying not to show the doubt, the worry, the anxiety chewing at me. I wouldn’t let this consume me. 

“And then,” I added, “I’m going to go to this damn ball tomorrow night.”

 

\---------------

 

I honestly thought Mor was going to cry.

“I’m just so fucking proud of you, damnit.” She blubbered, shaking her head to ward off tears, her golden curls bobbing around her pretty face. She ran her hands down her thick, red winter coat, steeling herself.

“I haven’t done it yet, Mor.” I reminded her gently. Our Uber driver looked worried, like he wasn’t sure how to handle woman tears. 

“I know that. I’ll probably be sobbing afterwards.” Mor shot back. At my laugh, she added ,”I can’t help it, damnit. I’ve seen you go through so much these past three months.”

She wasn’t wrong- I’d had a taste, a transition into the elite classical world I’d shed blood and tears trying to force myself into. I’d worked my ass off, put my everything into it, and then I’d hit a rock wall that was Tamlin. And now I was tearing that down, too.

“And  _ god  _ I hate sappy moments as much as the next person, but you’ve become one of my closest friends in the past bit, Feyre.” Mor said, tears gleaming in her eyes. I smiled at her, half amused, half touched. “I mean, who else could help me put up with the quintet guys? I would’ve slaughtered them all, without you there.”

I laughed, because I probably would’ve without her, too.

The air is replaced as we reach Tamlin’s apartment building.

I see the familiar entrance, the large, wooden doors and attendant just inside, the golden accents and beautiful plants just inside the lobby. It feels so wrong, and I feel like I need to run.

“Hey.” Mor says quietly beside me, slipping out of the car behind me after slipping the driver a bill. 

I close my eyes, nodding. She doesn’t have to continue, just slipping her slim hand into mind and giving a tight, reassuring squeeze.

“If Tamlin is here, I’ll punch him in the balls.” She says casually, as if we are discussing the weather. I bark out a laugh, because that’s Mor- so utterly vulgar and unfiltered, shoved inside the body of a beautiful, refined oboist. I love her.

When we reach the door, six stories up, my hand is shaking. But I take a strong inhale, steeling myself, and think.  _ Don’t lose yourself in the process. _

__ And so I slip the key into the lock, and turn.

Mor offers to go in first, but this is my battle, and I’m here to fight it. So I push myself in, like I’m better than the place, because I am.

But he’s not here- he’s at rehearsal, just like I’d expected. Mor and Rhysand haven’t told me if he’d been showing up to rehearsal or not, but by the many frantic texts and calls I’d received the past week, I knew he’d be trailing any chance he could get to see me. 

I was sick and tired of hiding, though. And so I was making the first move.

It didn’t take long for me to pack up, and I doubted Tamlin would even notice. I didn’t own much stuff, not like Tamlin did; I didn’t see a need, and it seemed overindulgent. 

I shoved all of my clothes into my suitcase, trying to ignore the fact that it had been filtered through. It sent a shiver down my spine, nonetheless, picturing him tearing through my belongings in a rage.

I grab all of my toiletries, all of my extra music supplies. I hadn’t practiced in almost a week, and I was ashamed of that. 

But that was in the past, and I was stronger than that. All I could change was the future.

“Got everything?” Mor asks, lightly. I nod, and she moves to help me carry all of the bags, the suitcases. We move in silence to the door, but I pause.

“Just a second.” I say, holding up my hand to stop her. 

I find a scrap of paper and a pen, tucked away in a kitchen drawer. I begin to write, quickly, in the messy scrawl that Tamlin had always told me looked childish. 

_ I left on my own will. I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you have did for me and all that you gave. Please don't come looking for me. I'm not coming back. _

__ I don’t need to sign it. I just place it on the kitchen counters, and I look at it before I leave, that tiny scrap alight under the harsh kitchen lights. 

I walk out the door, Mor on my tails, and I leave with my chin high.

 

\-----------------

 

“I was thinking.” Mor says, drumming her fingers against her thigh in that way that she always does, always a creature in motion.

“Oh god.”

“Oh, shut up, it’s a good idea.” Mor snaps. “I know we haven’t seen the guys in a while-”

“You mean Cassian and Az?” I ask, and I want to call them immediately. I feel so terrible- I hadn’t talked to them in almost a week. We weren’t as close as Mor and Rhys had became to me, but they were still my friends. 

They’d texted me a few times, but I checked my phone every few days, usually just to delete Tamlin’s messages. I wasn’t ready to block him then, but maybe I was now. 

But I’d ignored everyone else’s texts, pretended not to read them. I didn’t know what words to say.

“Who else?” Mor scoffed. “I was thinking it may be good for us all if we have them over tonight.”

I nodded, trying to remember what else was going on tonight. It was something important- oh, of course. Rhysand would be home, for once, before the early morning hours.

“I’d like that.” I tell her, truthfully. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be surrounded by people again, thrust into reality, but it was different. It was  _ my  _ people, and I was ready to get back into my life.

“Also.” Mor says, tilting her head, a slight grimace on her features, as if she’s unsure of whether or not she should continue. She does, anyways.

“Lucien keeps asking about you after rehearsals.” She says, quietly. 

I wince, even though she delivers it nicely. I had tried not to think much about Lucien, had ignored his texts and calls as if they were Tamlin’s. And maybe some of them  _ had  _ been from him, texting on Lucien’s phone, desperate.

“He really cares, Feyre. He and Tamlin aren’t talking anymore, from what I can see.” Mor says. “I think you should talk to him, even if it may bring up some bad feelings.

And she’s right. I’m being selfish, so in love with the idea of being my own person again that I’d shut out every resemblance to Tamlin and that past part of me. Lucien didn’t deserve that, at all.

“I will.” I say firmly. I’m making a lot of decisions, a lot of promises today, and it should concern me, but it doesn’t. It feels right, like for once I’m finally stepping forward instead of frozen in place.

I haven’t even had a rush of anxiety today. I rarely did around Mor- she gave me strength, making me into something I wished I was.

“Well, I’ll text Cass and Az, and we’ll get it all set up! What movies do you like?” She asks, grinning ear from ear. I must’ve misheard her.

“Movie?” I echo, a bemused grin on my face. 

“Yeah, movie nights.” Mor shoots back. Movie nights? Like we’re back in high school again?

She frowns at my expression, responding defensively. “We’re still young, Feyre.”

I shrug. I guess she’s right- Rhysand’s the oldest out of the bunch, at thirty, and I’m the youngest, at twenty-two- everyone else is scattered in between. It’s just so odd, with our careers. With most of the professionals, most of the music legends around us being old as dirt, it’s easy to forget that we’re all practically still kids, in the grand scheme of things.

“It’s just weird. I felt like I never really had time to be a kid. If that makes sense.” I say, really considering it. I’d grown up so fast, always practicing, working, trying to make a name for myself and provide somehow for my family. I’d even gone off to conservatory early.

“Why do you think we all act like children now?” Mor says, laughing. 

“Will there be candy?” I ask her, grinning.

“There will be  _ copious  _ amounts of candy involved, I can assure you.” Mor says sternly, acting as if this is vital, confidential information.

“And popcorn?”

“Only the butteriest.” She says, her mouth in a firm, straight line, her brows low.

“Then I  _ suppose  _ I can make an appearance.” I sigh dramatically.

There’s something so mundane about it all, so fun and playful and normal that it makes my chest ache. Not out of sadness, or anxiety, like I’d become used to in the past few months- but out of happiness, untamed and bright. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed them, the quintet. Mor. Rhysand. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hopefully* chapter five will be up either tonight or tomorrow afternoon! It’ll include the oh-so-cliched movie night troupe, and a tense, violent symphony ball! 
> 
> Thanks for all who comment and review- means the world to me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for such a long wait! Between work, friends, reading the Throne of Glass series, and practicing my own instrument, I’ve been busy. I’ll hopefully have a lot more time to update this week!

Rhysand drops a package into my lap, the plastic burrowing into the flannel pajamas I’d borrowed from Mor- movie nights  _ required  _ pajamas, she’d insisted.

“Well, hello to you too.” I grumbled, picking up the package- a gigantic thing of Sour Patch Kids. I raised an eyebrow in Rhysand’s direction, but he was busy putting his score bag on the counter, taking off his thick coat. But I could see the edge of his face, see the little grin that had appeared.

“I thought you needed something sweet, Feyre darling.” He said innocently, hands working at the scarf around his neck. “Since you won’t devour me.”

I laughed at that one. “Who says I like this?”

“I put a lot of thought into that.” Rhysand shoots back, wagging a finger at me. His pristine, combed-back mane was starting to come undone, a few inky pieces snaking into his eyes. 

“I can’t remember the last time I had candy.” I mused, because it had to of been when I was a kid- occasionally, when Mom was still alive, she’d bring home fancy candies from her travels, or Dad would stop by the grocery store to pick us up a few cheap treats. And after she’d died, we’d been too poor, and then when I got to New York, Tamlin had insisted on a clean, healthy lifestyle. 

The thought makes me want to growl. Douche. 

“Just try it.” Rhysand insisted, falling back into a chair beside me, his work-clothes askew. 

I rip open the package, a bit of sugary grains falling into my lap- Rhysand chuckles at my disgusted face.

“It’s messy is what it is.” I complain, and begin rooting through the bag. “What color do you reccomend, chef?”

“My personal favorite is the blue. Just a touch of weird, unnamable flavor, mixed with enough sugar to put a horse into a sugar coma. And topped with drugs, likely. Highly, highly addictive drugs.” Rhysand says, his face very stern and sincere. 

I scoff at him, deciding on a red one, just to spite him.

I almost spit it out. “It’s sour, you  _ prick.” _

__ “It’s called Sour Patch Kids, Feyre. Am I going to have to teach you to read, as well?” Rhysand scoffs, a wild grin on his face at my displeasure. “Just continue chewing it.”

I did, and after a moment it shifted- sweet and nice.

“Oh.” I said, appreciatively. “It’s not terrible.”

“I’m offended you think I’d ever be incorrect.” Rhysand says, putting a hand over his heart, his violet eyes shining with amusement. He laughs, swooping in towards me.

For a moment, I freeze, honestly thinking for some reason he was leaning in to press his lips to mine, to taste the sugary, processed candy for himself. I wonder what he’d taste like, past the sour, sweet grains, just him and I. 

But instead, he sticks a hand into the candy bag on my lap, stealing right in front of me.

I break out of my daze, my cheeks hot as I slap him away. “Go find your own, thief.”

“But sharing is so much more  _ fun,  _ Feyre darling.” Rhysand purrs, obviously seeing the effect he’d had on me. What a prick.

I pop a blue in my mouth, just to spite him.

“Oh, you really think that would discourage me?” Rhysand laughs, and I turn even redder, if that’s possible.

“Go change. Mor wants us all in pajamas for the movie.” I tell him, trying to change the subject before I either do something I’d regret, or die of embarrassment. Likely both, if I had the chance.

“Fine, fine. But I expect blues when I come back.” Rhysand says, retreating off into the hallway, cool as a cat. I don’t think I could ever phase him in the way he does me, and it makes me scowl.

I start picking the blues out, popping them one-by-one into my mouth.

 

\-----------------

 

“We don’t fuck around when it comes to Tolkien.” 

Cassian delivers it with such a straight, serious face that I can’t help but snort out a laugh. He’s so grim right now, in his ever-professional outfit of sweatpants and an old, blue Juilliard t-shirt. He’s got one burly arm curled around a bucket of popcorn, the other firmly pointing in my direction.

“It’s just a little long, is all I’m pointing out. And we have the ball tomorrow.” I said, throwing my hands up, trying to show him that I meant no harm to his dear movies. Even though getting Cassian riled up was honestly the best part of my boring, depressing week.

“He giving you the Lord of the Rings talk?” Rhysand mumbles as he pushes a soda into my hands. I’d never seen him drink soda before, not even with alcohol mixed in. 

“What have you got against good film?” Cassian throws a piece of popcorn at me. 

Rhysand catches it before it can hit me, popping the piece into his mouth.

“Never seen it before?” Rhysand asks me, raising one of his perfect eyebrows in amusement.

I considered lying- honestly, looking back, I probably should’ve.

“No. I’ve never really had an interest in it.” I admitted, trying to shrug it off. Cassian gasped, horrified.

“Nope, now we  _ have  _ to watch all of it.” Cassian insisted.

“Thanks.” I said dryly to Rhysand. He just offered a bright, mocking grin.

“My pleasure.” He purrs back to me, as I push his face away.

 

\--------------

 

It was an experience, to say the least. 

Cassian was glued to the huge screen, piled up on the nearest armchair with an assortment of junk foods and blankets, a tense frown on his face as the Fellowship continued their journey. Honestly, it was more enjoyable to watch him- the way he’d gasp occasionally (even though he proudly informed us he’d seen the movies over twenty times), the way he’d give commentary, the way he’d grip his armrests at tense moments. He was a twenty-something, wildly successful musician, and yet he turned into a middle school dweeb in front of the screen.

Mor threw another piece of popcorn at him when he made a snide comment on Frodo’s behalf.

“I just want to watch this movie without Cassian’s input.” Mor growled. “Hell, I want to live my  _ life  _ without Cassian’s input.”

“Don’t we all.” Azriel mumbles, even though he’s just as engrossed in the trilogy as his best friend.

I honestly had no idea what was going on at that point in the movie- there were so many characters that looked similar, so many names Cassian kept throwing my way, that I couldn’t begin to remember. It  was much more interesting to watch the rest of them, not in their usual symphony element.

Rhysand I can’t read as well- he was occasionally into the movie, occasionally staring off around the room, deep in thought. He still looked tense, probably leftover from his day at work, and I felt bad. Even he couldn’t escape it completely. 

He’d placed himself next to me on the loveseat, my legs up near my side, barely brushing his thighs. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t have me on edge, didn’t have me holding my breath every time he shifted. 

“I’m gonna go grab something to drink.” I whisper to Mor, sprawled across an armchair near me, in her mountain of blankets and popcorn. Cassian shushes me with a loud noise and a wave of his hand.

I wince when I clink two glasses together, sending a loud noise through the kitchen- but Cassian doesn’t yell at me to be quiet. 

“Watch out.” Rhysand whispers, scaring me half to death; he chuckles when I jump.

“Prick.” I shoot back, giving a dramatic scowl.

“You ate all the blues.” He pouts, leaning into the counter beside me as I continue my quest for a glass. I rolled my eyes- of course he’d still be on that.

“Maybe those are my favorite, too.” I offer. 

“Fine,” Rhysand groans loudly, and I raise an eyebrow.

“You better be quiet, or else you’ll get another talking-to about movie etiquette from Cass.” I tell him, not stopping the little grin at the thought of it. He takes the glass from me before I can protest.

“We all grew up a little too fast. It’s just his way of being a kid.” Rhysand says, filling up a glass for me. His  words are light, but the information they carry is heavy and sobering. I knew they’d grown up together, connected in their orphan status, but I didn’t know much else other than that.

But I’m nosy as hell, and I want to know more, for once. To finally understand these people in front of me fully. 

“When did you two meet?” I ask, leaning back against the counter behind me, the cool marble chilling through my flannel pajamas.  _ Mor’s  _ flannel pajamas.

Rhysand drags his finger around the rim of the glass, his mouth in a straight line. I almost took back my question, not expecting him to continue, but he does.

“I met them after I’d been kicked out of yet another foster home.” He says, and he’s tense when he offers me a grin. “I wasn’t a model child in my early teens. Well, I wasn’t a model child, ever.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod, as if it’s information I already knew.

“I was probably eleven by then, new to the whole system, but I’d already seen enough to know I hated it. I was sent back to the orphanage one day and they were there.” Rhysand shakes his head in a silent laugh. “They were inseparable, and no one would dare to foster them. Cassian was too overprotective of Azriel- after they, after they found him….”

He trails off, and I don’t know what he’s referring to, but it still makes my chest clench painfully. I don’t want to imagine what Azriel’s childhood may have been.

“Az came from a very, very abusive household.” Rhysand says, his tone bitter and sharp. “That may be too light a term for what he went through.”

Rhysand rubs a hand over his face, as if the conversation has already had its toll on him.

“You don’t have to continue.” I offer,  moving the few steps it takes to place a hand on his arm. He’s wearing a t-shirt, so utterly underdressed when compared to his normal attire, and his skin is fiery to the touch. He stiffens a little, and I yank my hand back, feeling embarrassed.

“No, you deserve to know.” He insists. “You’re like family to them. To us.”

I can’t help but smile at that.

“Cassian had an affinity for beating the shit out of anyone who so much as looked at Az wrong- and one day that was me. He didn’t expect me to actually fight back, and I did, with everything I could remember my father teaching me.” Rhysand’s face had changed, a faraway grin stretching  across his face. He looks straight from a painting right now, his face beautiful and pained, and it makes my chest ache with something I don’t want to place.

“Did he put you on your ass?” I ask, quietly, and Rhysand grins broadly.

“Of course.” He scoffs, looking me in the eyes. His grins are infectious. 

“But,” He adds,”I begged him to teach me afterwards. And the rest is history, I suppose.”

“There’s a lot of time between troublesome orphan and maestro of the world’s most notorious orchestra.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing that you and I have plenty of time to go through it all, isn’t it?” Rhysand shoots back. 

I want desperately to believe him, believe that this group- this family- is here to stay around. To believe that I belong here, that I will stay here. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a ruse, all an elaborate dream I’d soon wake from, tucked into a sleeping Tamlin’s side.

But for his sake, I smile back, even if it’s a little strained. 

“You’re missing the whole fucking movie!” Cassian roars from the next room. 

“Shut up, asshole.” Mor yells back, and I hear a loud thump that could only be Cassian’s head. I’d heard that noise many, many times.

Rhysand sighs. “Now to go play referee.” 

He turns around the side of the countertop, quickly moving past the surface, but his side catches on the pile of mail I’d left sitting there that afternoon.

Like in a dream, I can only watch him slowly pick up the pieces he’d sent flying to the floor, thumbing through the contents. I stop breathing for a moment.

“What’s this?” He asks, quietly, pulling out the one letter, written on a blood-red paper. The one Mor had brought up for me that morning, a grim look on her face as she told me it’d been stuffed into their mailbox, for some reason.

“Nothing, nothing. Just boring symphony stuff.” I answer him quickly, hoping I don’t sound too frantic, too suspicious. My heart is beating too fast, my hands clammy. Of course he’d know what symphony letters looked like- that jarring, blood red paper, the elegant scrawl. 

“Feyre.” Rhysand says firmly, concern drawn across his features. He’s pale, his golden skin losing its normal brilliant hue. 

“It’s honestly nothing, Rhys-”

“Please don’t lie to me. Not about  _ this.”  _ Rhysand says, gesturing to the scarlet letter, flung on the countertop between us. 

“Okay.” I say, finally, after gathering my bearings. I knew he’d never ruin my privacy, knew he wouldn’t read it without my consent. But I also knew that however innocent the letter had came across, it was from them. 

“They just informed me that if I missed another concert, I’d be up for suspension for the season. Ianthe would take my place.” I told him, folding open the rich paper to let him look. I’d paraphrased, but it was the main idea.

He reads over it, a furrow in his brow, his hands clenched so tightly around the paper that it leaves folds in the rich red. 

“They brought it here.” He said, quietly. “Not to Tamlin’s apartment.”

“Mor might have told someone?” I offer, lightly, trying to soothe his concerns. It was just a courteous letter. They were a workplace, and I’d had too many sick days. 

“You know she wouldn’t say that.” Rhysand shoots back. His eyes are elsewhere, not meeting mine, as if he can’t look at me. It stings.

“There were rumors,” I say, quickly, the words spilling out of me before I can filter them. “Rumors that Tamlin was involved with someone on the board, I’ve never met her- Amarantha, I think.”

“Don’t talk about her.” Rhysand says quickly, his words sharp and cutting, trying to stop my words before they come out.

“He probably  told her I was staying here, and that’s how they knew who to send it to.” I assure him. It’s not the most professional way for them to know, but I suppose it’s not  _ that  _ bad. 

But Rhysand’s body language says otherwise. He’s straight as a board, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw gritted tight. I’d never seen him like  this- gone was the graceful, sensual man, replaced with something hard and bitter. I wondered if this was what he was like as a child, a troublesome orphan.

“That letter says a lot more than you think.” Rhysand tells me, voice low and dangerous.

“Then enlighten me.” I shoot back, pulling myself up to my full height, even if it’s nothing compared to Rhysand’s.

“They’re telling you that they  _ know.”  _ Rhysand says, as if it’s supposed to be obvious to me. “They know that you’re staying with me, they know that there’s something nasty between you and Tamlin, they know that you’re vulnerable now-”

“Why? Why does it matter what they know?” I demand. 

“They’re keeping you in line.” He says, his eyes alight with anger when he finally looks at me. His voice is quiet, trying to keep it from the others in the next room, and I wonder if he’d be yelling if they weren’t there.  

“I don’t have a reason to get out of line.” I say tightly.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” Rhysand says- his words would be harsh coming from anyone else, but he says it in such a way that it’s soft and wondering. “You’re the youngest musician ever hired to the symphony, and a practically unknown one, at that.” 

“I obviously know that.” 

“Don’t you see it all? All the articles, all the news, all the classical radios- all eyes are on  _ you.”  _ He says, his voice dropping even more. “There’s power in that, so much power. You say something damning about them, the whole world hears.”

“I’ve never even  _ seen  _ them before, Rhys. I don’t have anything to say.” I don’t even know what I could say- what  would actually matter. 

“I-” I’m irritated by how much my voice shakes, how unsteady I feel, fueled by anger towards which I don’t know. “I know they’re not ‘good’- god, that sounds so stupid- but I don’t know anything other than that.”

“Did Tamlin ever tell you about his grandfather?” Rhysand asks, the question loaded and sitting between us. 

“Yes.” I say, quietly, hoping the simple words don’t bring Rhysand pain. I don’t know what response I’m supposed to have to it all-  _ I’m so sorry  _ seems too artificial to say to him, for a pain I couldn’t begin to experience or understand.

“Just know that everything they’re doing is in the same league as him- no, a  _ higher  _ league than him. The symphony is a front for all of their doings, more often than not. They hire the musicians that they do- young, untested, catty, wildly talented- to  _ create  _ sparks. To keep the eye off of them.” 

It doesn’t make sense. I know it’s above me, know it’s beyond me, but it still frustrates me to know that even with this information, I’m still in the dark.

“What are they doing?” I demand, again, pushing the question farther into him.

“They’re laundering money, Feyre. I-  _ I  _ don’t even know the full extent. I just- fuck.” Rhysand says frantically, and the sight of him right now has me in shock. He’s no longer composed, perfectly masked, like he usually is; for the first time, I’m seeing him really worried. He’s running a hand through his hair, tears of frustration threatening to spill, one hand gripping the counter with white knuckles.

“So the symphony is front for money laundering.” I say, softly. I feel like I’m using him now, but I can’t bring myself to stop in the moment. All the information I want is  _ right there _ , in him, and just a few more tugs and I can have it all for once. 

“I’m not saying any more.” Rhysand says softly, and the next time I look at him he’s somewhat back to normal. Composed enough to place the letter gently onto the counter, to look at me with a level head, violet eyes dry.

I can’t contain my frustration. “Please, just let me know. If I’m so damn important to it all that they’re willing to blackmail me-”

“Feyre, darling.” Rhysand says, catching my hands gently in his own. He’s warm and comforting, but I’m still on fire.

“No, don’t give me that.” I hiss. “I’m tired of everyone else making these decisions for me- I want to know exactly what I’m involved in.”

“Okay.” Rhysand says suddenly, stopping my tirade. He’s very still, his face stern. Truthful. “But not today. Not tonight.”

“You can’t keep putting it all off. I won’t lose interest.”

“I know.” He says firmly. “I have a feeling you’ll learn soon enough, though.”

\----------------

 

The movie night ends sometime in the early morning hours, even though I’d long stopped paying attention to it, even when Rhysand and I came back. We sat farther apart now, both of us tense and ready to break. I wasn’t the only one frustrated, shaken up.

Mor invited Azriel and Cassian to spend the night- well, she invited Azriel. Cassian had long since passed out  in the armchair, sprawled out, snoring like a beast. He’d be pissed he missed the end of  _ Return of the King. _

__ I left to go shower and go to bed before Rhysand could talk to me- I was too irritated, even a little bit mad at him, though I knew that was dumb. It wasn’t his fault, but I hated the fact that he knew all of it and I didn’t. Hated that he kept it to himself.

And I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of symphonies and murders, of scarlet letters blending into pools of inky blood.

 

\------------------

 

“Good morning, sunshine.” Cassian cooes as I grab a handful of strawberries from the counter, throwing them on my plate. 

“It’s too early for this.” I grumble, wiping the sleep from my eyes. The sun shines brightly through the windows, casting the dining room in shades of fiery orange and red, and it’s beautiful, but I’m the farthest thing from a morning person. 

“It’s almost eleven in the morning.” Rhysand says smoothly as he slips into a seat beside me, already carving into a plate of pancakes in front of him. He’s so normal, so chipper and all grins, that  I can almost forget our conversation last night. Even the letter is gone from the countertop- he must have thrown it away.

I dig into my own food, for once starving- I knew I hadn’t been eating the best the past few weeks, even when I was still with Tamlin. He’d never mentioned it, but Rhysand and Mor always made efforts to push  more on me when I was here. They always cared, always saw so much more than Tamlin ever did.

“Feyre, we had a question for you. About the ball tonight.” Mor says quietly from across table- I stiffen at her tone. It’s the We Need To Talk tone, and it scares the ever living shit out of me. It never seemed to be good.

I swallow a large bite of blueberry pancake. “And?”

Mor and Cassian exchange a glance; Mor has her hands tightly gripping her mug of steaming coffee, wringing her fingers around the ceramic designs. 

“Well, the quintet was supposed to play at the ball tonight, after all.” Mor says lightly, and my stomach drops. I’d forgotten. Fuck, fuck, fuck- I’d been so in my own world, mourning and depressed and anxious this past week, that I’d forgotten all about the invitation.

Most of the other chamber ensembles in the symphony- brass quintet, string quartet, a few others- were asked to play a few waltzes and such for the ball tonight. It was the symphony’s way of showing  ‘gratitude’ to the board- the thought makes me laugh, because we’re all actually trying to show why we should not be fired, please and thank you.

It would be a gigantic crowd- probably  more than a thousand, maybe two. All the donors, all the board, the symphony, arts programs, news reporters. 

“I’m so sorry. I’d completely forgotten.” I groan, rubbing my fingers into my eyes. I felt awful, letting them down like this.

“Well, we can still do it.” Cassian says, a light chuckle escaping him. “We still have time.”

“We have this afternoon, that’s it.” I remind him.

“It’s not till eight, and we play closer to ten.” Mor adds. “But I am going to need to start getting you and me ready at five-ish.”

“It’s doable.” I think, hoping I’m right. We were good, scary good, five gears of a larger machine. Outstanding as individuals, breathtaking as a unit.

“We’ll have to call Lucien over.” Azriel says quietly, refilling his own mug of coffee. I’d almost forgotten he was there, but his words hit me hard. He’s even glancing at me, knowing it would make me wince.

“Yes.” I nod firmly. “I need to talk with him, anyways.”

I did- I’d missed my best friend dearly, and it was shitty of me to shut him out the past week. He’d just been so connected to Tamlin that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put myself around him for fear of being right back where I started.

“Well, we have the waltz from the fourth movement of the Serenade. Pretty goddamn boring, but they expect something to dance to, so…” Cassian offers, pursing his lips. You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he thinks, trying to come up with something from our past repertoire. 

But I’m already thinking, myself. They’re expecting a waltz, something light and airy and beautiful, something translucent and obedient and shallow.

But I remember the letter they sent me, the blood-red parchment, the meaning between the words. I remember Tamlin and the lady, the rumors I’d heard. I remember how they treated Rhysand, how they demanded so much of him. I remember how,  _ somehow, _  they were connected to the man that had ordered his family murdered. I remember how they blackmail us into obedience, scare us into submission. I remember Nephelle, the last principal clarinet, remember the price she paid at an attempt to bare it all to the public, and how it had all been in vain.

I think of them in their gorgeous, elaborate dresses, floor-length and practically immobile save for the sway and step of a slow waltz, and I smile. I turn to Rhysand, who is already studying me with careful, curious eyes.

“You think your symphony board can tango?” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here’s where we earn that Mature rating. Sexual tension ahead!

Piazzolla’s  _ Libertango  _ was the worst possible selection for the Velaris Quintet to play at the annual New York Symphony Ball- fiery, seductive, and tumultuous. A dramatic contrast to what they were  _ supposed  _ to play, a serene, slow waltz.

I guess that’s why I loved it so damn much.

Rhysand looked so utterly surprised when I’d asked about a tango that morning at breakfast- for once, I’d caught the carefully-constructed man off guard. And by the looks of it, stuck between worry and amusement. 

Cassian’s bark of a laugh was my first answer.

“Have I ever told you that I love you, Feyre?” Cassian had said, a goofy grin on his face, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before me.

“I’d rather you never tell me that.” I said back, his grin infectious.

“I’m on board.” Mor shrugged. “We’ll pay for it, but why not exercise a bit of freedom?”

“Because it’s only going to hurt us.” Azriel said, a contemplative, stony look on his features. His brows were low, his shoulders hunched around himself. He looked torn.

“Why not, though? All they do it push us, control us. Why not return the favor?” I offered. There was a burning in my chest, a conviction, even if it wasn’t the wisest, ethical decision I’d ever made. All I could feel was a sense of responsibility- as if this small act could somehow repay the board for all the shit they’d put the musicians through. If everything we suspected was true, too, it was much, much more than the simple pushing.

Rhysand was still quiet, tracing a long, slender finger around the rim of his mug. When I met his eyes, I found he was looking at me, violet eyes peering at me, curious.

“What do you think?” I asked him, even if I felt silly. I didn’t want to replace the constant validation I used to need from Tamlin, with another person.

But it was different- I’d needed Tamlin’s input because he’d insisted I needed his hand to guide me. Rhysand didn’t guide me- if anything, he just simply walked alongside me.

“I think that it’s your decision.” Rhysand said finally, dipping his head a bit. 

“Really, do you not have an opinion on it?” I asked, not unkindly- just surprised.

“If the possible repercussions are worth speaking your mind, then do it.”

Speaking my mind.

Yes. I liked that, liked it a lot.

And that’s where we all found each other, an hour later, the mid-afternoon sun beginning to trickle through the giant windows of the study. It was almost two o’clock, but we wouldn’t need more than a few hours, at most.

Lucien had been more difficult to convince.

When he’d first stepped through the threshold, he’d seemed so out of place, so timid. He walked as if the ground below him may break, as if Rhysand’s apartment was close to swallowing him up.

And then he’d seen me, and I felt tears pricking at my eyes when we met each other halfway in a bruising hug.

“God, Feyre. It’s so good to see you.” Lucien mumbled into my hair. He hadn’t looked the best- wrinkled sweater, dark jeans that seemed to hang off him a little more than normal, despite his usual lean frame. His red hair even seemed to lose a bit of its shining luster.

He was worried about me. I felt a rush of bitter guilt hit me- I’d been so caught up in leaving behind Tamlin, that old life, that I’d left behind my best friend in the process.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just- I couldn’t be around Tamlin again. I had to get away from that part of my life, to really get over it.” I told him, wincing as my words left my mouth. They sounded so stupid, so flimsy, even if they were true.

“I know.” Lucien said simply, even though that hurt still showed in his amber eyes. 

“It’s okay now.” I told him, firmly. Even if I’d just made the decision that it was  _ okay now  _ only yesterday, it still was true. It was time for me to finally be okay now, instead of falling further.

“I’m happy that you’re okay.” He responded, choosing his words careful. I tried not to ponder them. Not  _ I’m happy for  you  _ or  _ I’m happy you’re not with Tamlin anymore. _

But Mor had butted in then, breaking us from our quiet conversation to lure us into practice in the study, which we were already late to. I followed Lucien through the doors, hoping I was making the right decision, letting him into all of this.

\----------------

 

“You worried?” Mor asked as she stuck another bobby pin in my hair, stabbing at my scalp.

“Ouch,” I muttered, to Mor’s apologetic smile. “And what about?”

“The fact that you decided to give the board a big middle finger tonight?” She said, raising an eyebrow, as if it weren’t obvious.

Honestly, I’d made enough life changing decisions in the past month that there were way too many options to be worried about.

“Maybe. I’m new, remember?” I told her, watching in the giant bathroom mirror as she pinned half of my brown-blond hair up, the locks obedient to her hand. 

Mor frowned. “I forget,  sometimes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.”

“In a good or a bad way?” I asked, laughing. 

“Good. It feels like you’ve always been a part of us.” She tells me, and I meet her sparkling eyes in the mirror, a grace of a smile on her pretty face. 

I can’t help but return it.

She helps me into my dress-  her dress, actually. Mor had taken one look at my previous choice, a modest, bland black dress I’d used for every performance, and scoffed. 

I knew the ball was special, different, but I was a musician first and foremost. I thought I was allowed to be boring.

The dress she’d brought me was anything but.

“It never suited me.” Mor said, fingering the shimmering, gauzy fabric. It’s such a dark navy that I’d thought it was black at first- it caught the light, revealing other colors that sparkled like stars blanketing a night sky. 

Mor let out a whistle as I twirled, a cheeky grin on her face.

It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful, hugging to the meager curves I had, making them soft and plentiful, curving into the indent of my waist. The fabric turned sheer, see-through past my cleavage, just a transparent fabric as it creeped up to my neck, fitting to my arms. But the little pinpricks, the stars, still shone even on the transparent part.

“Rhysand’s going to love it.” Mor says, weighing my response with those careful brown eyes of her. Always planning.

And perhaps an old Feyre would’ve blushed, would’ve shied away from the comment and what it entailed.

But instead I smiled broadly.

 

\------------------

 

Cassian and Azriel are downstairs, waiting for us. 

I can see the tension in Cassian’s form before he turns around, can see by the nervous tap of his foot that he’s impatient as ever. 

“Thank god,” Cassian grumbles as he hears our footsteps down the hall, fiddling with the  shiny, luxurious watch on his wrist. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to.

“I knew you two would take forever and all, but seriously-” Cassian stopped his grumbling, turning around to face us; Azriel was already watching us, smiling fondly in our direction.

“Well, at least it was worth the wait.” Cassian drawls, raising his eyebrows as he took both of us in. I felt uncomfortable for a moment, like a little kid playing dress-up, clothed in her mother’s finery. But no, this is who I was, who I’d  _ worked  _ to be my whole life. The youngest principal musician the New York Symphony had ever seen, and I’d wear that title in every aspect of my life.

“I wish I could say the same about you,” Mor grumbles beside me, but there’s a grin painting her ruby red lips, a lightness in the way she carries herself. 

Where I was uncomfortable, testing the waters- Mor was thriving. She lived for this stuff, I realized, the glitz and glamour of it all. And boy did she look like it- a bloodred gown, a few shades darker than ruby, hugging every one of her generous curves, dipping low down the back. At first I’d raised an eyebrow at how  _ revealing  _ it seemed.

“Oh, Feyre,” She’d sighed, pulling at one of the curls she’d left trailing down my back. “You have no idea what they’re like.”

She was right- I’d never met the symphony or the board outside of the concerts, which held a strict code of conduct and dress.

“You two look beautiful.” Azriel said, kindly, dipping his head to us. 

“You both clean up rather well yourselves, no matter what Mor says.” I told them both- I definitely wasn’t lying. Both in tuxedos, a matching charcoal grey, both fitted perfectly to their contrasting forms; slicked back  hair, even on Cassian’s untamed mane.

“Got what I asked for?” Mor asks Cassian with a raise of one eyebrow. She saunters past him, going towards the kitchen, and I don’t miss the way Azriel quietly observes her, drinking up her form like she may disappear.

“For  _ me,  _ yes.” Cassian shoots back, and I see the glint of a shiny flask as he rearranges it inside his coat.

There we go. The illusion of the handsome, put-together man gone, instead replaced with boyish Cassian.

“Go get Rhysand, Feyre.” Cassian says, that stupid grin on his face.

“Where is he?” 

“In the study, practicing, of course.” 

I can see all of their eyes on me, watching my movements, and I wonder if they were going to follow me back there, looking over my shoulder the whole time. 

But I shook them off, whatever they were planning, and made my way to the study.

Rhysand had worked hard to make sure the study was well insulated, almost sound-proof on the outside. But I could still hear lilting piano notes slide through the walls, dancing in the air between us.

Ravel’s  _ Pavane pour une infante defunte. _

__ Pavane for a Dead Princess.

I open the door, quietly, but Rhysand doesn’t turn around on the bench.

I can see the muscles of his back working beneath his rich, dark jacket, straining with every note, every chord. It’s a simple melody, gorgeous and rich, but simple, yet Rhysand plays it as if each note means the world.

He finishes after a few long moments, letting loose a long sigh. And then he folds down the cover of the piano, gingerly, with all the care in the world.

Rhysand turns around, and when he sees me his expression makes me ache somewhere deep inside, like it’s something I’d been waiting forever to see.

There’s a genuine smile on his face, so pure I have to fight back the goofy one that threatens to show up on mine.

“You’re exquisite, you know that, Feyre darling?” He says simply, shaking his head softly.

I don’t blush, don’t throw away his compliment because of silly fears and bouts of troubled self-confidence.

“Thank you.” I say instead, and I mean it. 

Rhysand pats the piano bench beside him, urging me to come sit.

“You look okay, I suppose.” I said, shrugging innocently.

He barks out a laugh. “I look amazing, but that’s nothing new.”

I’m lying- he looks like some sort of king in his own right, like he should be leading a country instead of pouring himself out on that piano. He’s in a tuxedo, like his two closest friends, but his is instead midnight black all over, even in the traditionally white button-down. He’s clothed in darkness, and he shines wonderfully in it.

Rhysand watches my skirts as I move, eyes shining.

“You look like starlight.” He says, quietly, contemplative. As if he was merely talking to himself.

“Are you ready for tonight?” I asked him after I sat by him, just a fraction of an inch away from him. I itched to move closer, wondering what it would feel like to fold myself into his side, his strong, warm body.

“I never am.” Rhysand said truthfully, pinning me with a violet gaze. 

“It’s like performing, I suppose. You’re never ready- you just learn to cope with it all.” I offered him. 

“Feyre,” Rhysand says, dropping his voice. There’s a look in his eyes, something I can’t place. “I may be….  _ Different,  _ tonight. More like what you saw in rehearsals, but… worse.”

“I trust you.” I said, so quickly that it takes me by surprise. But I mean it, every word. 

“I would never ask you to do anything you were uncomfortable with.” He continues, not breaking my gaze, not backing down from his words. “But if I asked you to go along with it all-”

“I’d do it.” I answered. “You’ve done so much for me, Rhysand, and you put all of yourself into bettering this orchestra. If putting on this face is what keeps everything going, then I’ll gladly go along with it.”

Rhysand doesn’t  respond immediately, just closes his eyes, thinking. I haven’t painted in months, haven’t touched a canvas since before Tamlin, but in that moment the paints call to me, itching at me to paint him. Colored in the light, warm hues of the lamps, creating stark lines out of his strong, chiseled features.

“Thank you,” He says, finally, right before he opens his eyes again. Among it all, he looks tired. 

I wonder how much it takes out of him, to constantly be someone he isn’t.

“Okay, kiddos. We gotta go  _ now.”  _ Cassian hollers from the hallway, his loud voice echoing through Rhysand’s apartment.

Rhysand looks at me expectantly, rising up in front of me.

“Shall we?” He asks, the exhaustion in his eyes replaced with a boyish glint, a smirk playing across his features. He reaches an arm out for me to link my own through.

 

\-------------------

 

The ball is stunning.

It’s one of the largest non-performance halls I’ve ever performed in- covered in gleaming  white marble, constructed with dozens of thick, ornate pillars, and adorned with fresh red roses. I see them and I immediately think of the red letter sitting at home, likely somewhere Rhysand had hidden it, out of my sight.

And the people. God, so many people in one place, all clothed in dazzling dresses that left little to the imagination, or rich tuxedos that cost more than my entire flat I’d grown up in, I was sure of it.

When I’d walked in on Rhysand’s arm, matching his own carefree saunter with one of my own, they had all stopped. The music had continued, seemingly in vain, as the ballroom paused in their dancing, watching the night’s most important man enter, the newest symphony addition on his arm.

I tried to match his looks, his mannerisms- the way his eyes swept over the crowd, a slight, dark smirk on his features. The way he brushed off half the audience in a heartbeat, the way he commanded the attention.

It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Rhysand, but some untouched part of me rumbled to life. I supposed it was that allure of power, calling out to me, that made all my fake movements so easy, so seductive.

Mor, Cassian, and Azriel had trailed behind us, a formidable wall at our backs. They grinned at those that stepped quickly out of Rhysand’s way, Azriel giving a formidable stare. A little court, small in number but strong and powerful in the foundations of the symphony.

I realized then that I knew absolutely nothing about the New York Symphony. I had no idea that the real power, the real influence of the symphony lay in the four members I’d been joking, drinking with for months.

“You’re a natural,” Rhysand whispered, dipping down to my ear, his hot breath sending a shiver down my spine. “Just remarkable.”

“I’m the youngest principal the symphony has ever seen. Aren’t I allowed to sneer?” I said, innocently. 

Rhysand tipped his head back, a throaty laugh escaping him. 

“I’m getting a drink.” Mor mumbled behind us, escaping into the crowd around us. Slowly, the crowd had began its dancing again, though a few eyes were still watching the maestro with curiosity, apprehension. 

Rhysand simply laid a hand flat on my back, the contact sending heat through me. He led us to a table, seated towards the middle of the ballroom, on the outskirts of the dancing floor.

We sat, Azriel and Cassian falling in beside us, perfectly flanking us- Cassian to my right, Azriel to Rhysand’s left. So perfectly, utterly political.

I was so close to Rhysand- almost tucked into his side, like we’d been earlier, on his piano bench. It felt different here, not bad, but not as intimate and touching as in his private study.

And the tables in front of us- expensive, heavy tables carved from dark wood and glass. 

See through, so anyone could see the possessive hand Rhysand had laid on my knee, the one I was intensely honed in one.

“Why so political?” I said, a little breathless by it all.

He still had that sharp mask on his face, that cocky, dark smirk.

“What better way to play their game, than to imitate them?” Rhysand drawled. 

“That would make you no better than them.” I told him, quietly.

That mask faltered a bit, threatening to shift after my words. I felt a shock of worry go through me- I hadn’t meant it to hurt, to be  _ bad _ , I’d just spoken quickly-

“You don’t have to do this.” He whispered, his eyes open and vulnerable.

“No. I see  _ you _ , through all of this.” I assured him, reaching a hand down to link through his, squeezing. “You don’t scare me.”

Maybe he should’ve scared me- a maestro with the power to decide my whole career, perhaps my whole life, if the stories I’d heard about the board were true. But he didn’t- he was just Rhysand, the man who showed me beloved scores in the early morning hours, the one that brought me sour candies he’d wanted me to try, the one who had urged me to  _ fight. _

Rhysand gave me a quick, small smile, and was back to himself- the maestro.

And, if to further my point, I placed his hand back on my knee, a little higher this time, burning me through the thin fabric of my dress.

If the sharp intake of his breath was any indication, it had a similar effect on him.

I saw Cassian take a deep swig from his flask beside my, unashamedly.

“I’m going to need more alcohol.” He mumbled, glaring at the people around him.

 

\----------------

 

Our performance was glorious.

We nailed the  _ Libertango, _ painting a seductive, dark dance with the music. Mor’s oboe solo soared, setting the stage, and when Lucien came in to take over the solo, he  _ moaned  _ through the instrument, a line of twisted pitches and extended technique that was downright dirty. I’d had to wipe the grin of the face long enough for me to pick up the solo line, Azriel laying down the main theme firmly throughout the trading of solos, Cassian providing a strong, unyielding bassline that propelled us forward.

And the crowd- oh the crowd. I had to stifle my laughter. 

They weren’t sure what to do, how to dance. They certainly were dressed to tango, in their skin-tight, restrictive dresses, their fancy up-dos. Some frowned, some scowled, some just glanced around one another, worried. And some, the few members of the symphony I actually liked, listened along with baited grins.

There was Rhysand, standing among the board, a lazy smirk on his face as he listened, meeting my eyes when we bowed. I don’t think there was an ounce of humility in our bows.

“Oh, Feyre darling.” Rhysand purred afterwards, finding me in the hall, a glass flute of bubbly champagne in his hands. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“It went well.” I told him, smirking right back at him as I took the glass from his hands.

“That’s mine.” He shot back, grinning nonetheless.

He watched me take a drink, watched a drop of champagne escape the glass and instead trickle down the side of my chin, down my neck. Watched it all the way down, looking ravenous.

And carefully, so carefully that I froze, he reached a finger out to trace it’s path, to dry the wet trail it left.

Rhysand stuck his finger into his mouth, giving me a look that made my knees threaten to shake. Gods above.

“I love the taste of champagne.” He said, simply. 

“Prick.” I shot back, if only to regain some sense of control. He opened his mouth, to respond, but instead, another voice began to talk.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve officially met.” A man said, and I turned to meet him.

No, I hadn’t officially met him before, even though I knew him. I knew of everyone in the orchestra, technically; and it also helped that Tarquin, principal cellist, was ridiculously beautiful. Dark, smooth skin, offset by snow-white hair, always smoothed back perfectly. And a very muscular form, always enhanced with the form fitting clothes he seemed to favor.

Yes. I  _ definitely  _ knew Tarquin.

“I’m not sure how we haven’t before.” I said, smiling broadly at the new man. If Rhysand could be a tease, maybe I could, too. “I’m Feyre Archeron.”

“Of course I know who you are. How could I not?” Tarquin beamed, dipping his hand to press a kiss to the back of my outstretched palm. “I’m Tarquin Adriata, principal cellist.”

Rhysand gave him a tense, professional smile- I could see his teeth gritted, jaw set through it. 

Tarquin began talking to me about my past performances, raving about my  _ Daphnis et Chloe  _ solo- I halfway listened to the man, even if his voice was rich and deep, like the human equivalent of his beloved instrument. I was too focused on Rhysand, who had been dragged into another conversation.

A redheaded woman, clothed in a dark dress of black and gold. Surprisingly modest, compared to the other partygoers.

I knew who she was immediately, if the way Rhysand had tensed was any indication. A small movement, barely noticeable to the eye, but I’d spend so much time with him the past few months that it was like a waving, red flag.

Amarantha wasn’t near as beautiful and flawless as I’d imagined- she was pretty, yes, perhaps even stunning, but there was something cruel about her features. Even as she talked politely to Rhysand, there was a sneer threatening to escape on her face.

She said something, her eyes sliding over to meet mine- and she smiled, without an ounce of kindness. Rhysand moved in front of her vision, shielding me.

“-simply remarkable, that performance. My ex-fiancee was a flautist from Prague, and even she could not bottle half the talent-” Tarquin said, so pretty and eloquent that I hated to interrupt him.

“If you’ll excuse me, Tarquin. I have to go see a dear friend.” I told him, giving him a warm, broad smile to ease the rude gesture; he seemed to take it, even if he looked let down.

And I walked right up to Amarantha, falling into place beside Rhysand.

If he was going to play this role, wear this mask, then I’d bear the burden with him.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Feyre Archeron.” I said, icily, holding out a stiff  hand to Amarantha, pinning her with a frosty, wide smile. 

She was completely unphased; She simply grinned back, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Rhysand stiffened beside me as I shook her hand, through her bruising grip;  that lazy half-smirk never left his face, though, even if his hand at my back curled cautiously into the fabric.

“I’m Amarantha Hybern. Head of the symphony board, of course.” She said, her teeth blindingly white against the blood-red of her lips.

I stood my ground,  even as her words hit me.  _ Head  _ of the board. Not just some lackey, some member trying to play their cards right.

Tamlin was too far into all of this, in over his head. The fool.

“I loved your performance.” Amarantha said smoothly. “So fiery, passionate. If only we could’ve danced.”

I wasn’t sure what game she was playing at- I may be wearing Rhysand’s mask, but I lacked any of the knowledge, the experience he’d earned over the years.

“Yes, she’s simply exquisite, isn’t she?” Rhysand said, swooping into the conversation to save me from putting my foot into my mouth.

“It would be a shame for that talent to go to waste.” She said, carefully, staring directly at me. Keeping Rhysand out of it.

“It would indeed. I’m sure the public is hanging onto every word of her story.” Rhysand said, a dark look in his eyes as he stared her down. 

Immunity. He was trying to make sure she knew she couldn’t touch me.

Amarantha showed no fear,  though. Simply smiled and smiled, eerily calm on her porcelain face.

“Yes, I was thrilled when I’d heard you had been hired.” Amarantha said, in a tone that would be kind on any other voice. For her, it was so sugary and fake it made my stomach curl.

“I was surprised, too.” She continued, ripping her eyes away from me to glance at Rhysand, quickly. 

He was quiet, his face eerily still and calm. I hated it, holding my breath at her words.

“After all, we had all voted for Ianthe to take over the position.” Amarantha said, and I felt  my world- the little world I’d created, carved out for myself, begin to crumble. “But I suppose the maestro does get the last say, after all.”

I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t even touch him anymore.

I wanted to do many, many  things in that moment, none of which could possibly coexist with the mask I still had plastered on my face.

“Yes,” I said, choking back the words I wanted to say. “What a wonderful turn of events.”

“I’m sure you’ll fit in just fine, after a few more months.” Amarantha added, trying to rub salt into an already festering wound. 

“Thank you. It was nice to meet you, Amarantha.” I said, stiffly, even though her smile turned vicious, spurred on by her victory above me. She knew she’d struck something vital, something weak.

And it only worsened when someone appeared out of the crowd, coming to her side.

Dressed in his dark tuxedo I’d seen him wear many times before, the one I knew had a small pocket on the interior that used to house a little polaroid photo of us- for good luck, he’d said, for performances. His blond hair smoothed back and highlighting his regal features.

Tamlin opens his mouth, but I’m already gone.

Not running, no, because I still have some semblance of that mask still on. I walk, a little fast, darting politely around dancing couples.

I feel bile sting the back of my throat, feel my chest strung so tightly I worry that I may break, right there, in front of everyone.

But I get out, outside to the side of the building.

The New York City air hits me, the smells of the city around me, the chill of the crisp autumn night burrowing into my bones. I wished it would ground me, but it only worsens everything. I’m here in New York City, as principal flute of the city’s beloved symphony, not because I was the sole winner of the chair- but because I’d been placed there, specifically, by the maestro.

“Feyre?” Rhysand asks, carefully, because he knows he fucked up. He knows he’s in the goddamn wrong for this one.

I’m crying, and I worry about all the makeup Mor had plastered onto me, but I don’t care anymore. I can’t wear any mask at this moment, whether Rhysand’s or Mor’s.

“I didn’t earn any of this.” I say, quietly, and I see the way he winces. The way he closes his eyes tightly, like he’s in pain. 

“You were second, yes, but-”

“I didn’t deserve it.” I said, a little louder. Anger, hot and sharp, boils in my chest; those pieces that threatened to break were now on fire. “This whole time, I’d been grounding myself on that- that I  _ belonged.  _ But no- I’m just some piece of this fucking game-”

“That’s not true.” Rhysand said, quickly, his brows furrowed, a hardened look on his face. I can barely look at him in the alleyway, bathed in harsh streetlights, a beautiful man at odds with the dirty streetside.

“Why’d you do it?” I demanded, hating the way my voice cracked, the way the tears had began to blur his edges. 

For once, Rhysand was quiet.

“Did you see me, Rhysand?” I said, louder, no more than a growl. I’m on fire.

I didn’t think he’d been at one of my many auditions; most were blind, the judges behind a sheet, but there had been a few in front of a small crowd. Too many people to memorize.

“Did you hire me, just so you could use me?” I seethed, stepping closer to him. He just looked down on me, his face limp and weak, broken. “So you could fuck me, eventually,  _ use  _ me-”

“No. Gods, no, Feyre.” Rhysand said, strongly, the saddened look leaving his face- he shook his head, taken aback. “I’m not the kind of person who would  _ ever  _ hire someone solely out of attraction-”

“How would I know who you really are?” I shot back, throwing my hands up. “How would I possibly know if the Rhysand from  _ in there  _ isn’t the real one?”

“You know me.” He said, his voice quieter, vulnerable, unlike I’d ever heard it before. As if he were pleading with me, pleading for me to believe that he wasn’t only the maestro.

“No. I don’t know you, at all, Rhysand.” 

His reaction was immediate- his mouth went into a thin, white line, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it seemed painful- and for a moment, I felt guilty. Guilty that I’d just hit him where it hurt most. Rhysand was just as lost as I was, I realized. Looking desperately for someone to prove to him that he wasn’t everything he hated about himself.

“I couldn’t let Ianthe take that position. She’s got ties to some of the same organizations the board is involved with- a group that calls themselves priestesses. Despicable people, Feyre, and I couldn’t let them gain another stronghold in my symphony.

“And beyond that, I needed  _ you  _ there. I needed someone strong, someone new, someone young, to challenge this goddamn symphony and create such an interesting role that the board wouldn’t dare touch you. Not with every eye on you. It’s the only way we could ever hope at stopping what they’re doing.”

His words were so quiet, spoken so strongly they seemed like a prayer, a pleading between us. I took it all in, hoping it was enough.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t shake that numbness inside me.

It was like I was trapped under Tamlin again, trapped with the idea that everything I’d earned, everything I’d gained was all because of a man. Not because of me, but because I couldn’t possibly do it without a male at my side to pull the strings.

“I thought this was something I’d done by myself.” I said simply, and I slipped back into the building. I couldn’t look at his face, couldn’t see his expression, or I may have crumbled right then and there.

I wiped at the tears under my eyes, hoping I didn’t look too terrible- I just needed to find Mor, and tell her I was leaving, and then I could call Nesta and beg for a place to stay. It wasn’t something I was proud of, but I didn’t know what I was anymore. The thing I’d been used as a foundation, a reminder of my own self worth, had been a mirage in itself.

I heard the click of heels before I saw her, and somehow I’d already identified the sound, even though I’d talked to her once.

“Oh, how convenient.” Amren said cooly, eyeing me over as she approached me. I cringed, hoping I didn’t look too pitiful. If anyone noticed, they’d probably just assume Rhysand and I had snuck off to screw somewhere. As shameful as it was, it was better than them knowing the truth.

“Hello, Amren.” I said, willing my voice to be strong, normal.

“I had news, but I guess I can tell you now instead of later.” She said. “The board wasn’t fond of your change in repertoire tonight, child.”

I raised an eyebrow at her- though formidable, the small woman didn’t look a day older than thirty, at the most. 

“Oh?” I said, innocently. I expected her to growl at me, to be upset at my disobedience, but instead she gave me a sad look, pity in her black eyes. I wasn’t prepared for her next words, even though I should’ve expected the punishment, should’ve expected the retaliation.

“They’re moving your recital up three weeks. They wish you the best of luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pieces used:  
> Daphnis Et Chloe, Suite No. 2 ~Ravel  
> Sextet for Wind Quintet and Piano ~Poulenc  
> 6 Bagatelles (especially mvmt. 1- Cassian would love the horn parts) ~Ligeti  
> Lavottiana ~Farkas


End file.
